That hideous sound, so deadly common. The noise of isolation, even when in company. Malignant rhythms of toxic effluent. The lies. In color, and song. To prostitute everything sacred. And the noise they thus so urgently and endlessly transmit. The absolute opposite of living sound. To celebrate, no less, a dead window. The mimic of the lifethread. On a world where few preserve it. The mimic of the tiny string… that’s in and known to everything. Oh vampire true in whose image all fiction withers in fealty, thy sickening sound, be silenced.