Listen.

As I walked home from the Movement meeting, I not saw, not smelled, not felt.

I heard.

The laughing of someone in front of Dwinelle.
The rushing stream water to my left.
The scrape of skateboard wheels on the pavement.
The loud drumming of taiko.
The clack of their drumsticks.
The car door closing in the parking lot.
The scuffle of shoes on the bricks.
The creaking of the door to MLK.
The steps of feet on the stairs.
The steady ticks of the spokes on a bike.
The whoosh of the wind as he passes.
The indistinct murmur of those walking by.
The click of a woman's heels.
The rev of a distant motorcycle.
The zip of a backpack.
The crackling gravel beneath the car tires.
The drone of an older car.
The smooth hum of a sleek, new one.
The yelling of a man on the corner.
The jangle of dangling keys.
The bark of a dog tied to a pole.
The chatter of customers at Chipotle.
The buzz of the glowing neon lights.
The distant drumming continues.
The DINGs of the ATM machine.
The jingle of change in a cup.
The song of a bum at Asian Ghetto.

My front door slammed shut as I entered.

And all of it disappeared.