3. There are children everywhere, naturally. Some have had the bleeding ear, some feel strong in the hands, believe themselves to be permanent on this earth. Who would not? They wear hard outfits of denim and cotton and hats, shout and cry and make up new words. Their teeth break when they speak. People complain that they cannot move. Certain people. Insist it is not paralysis, are simply unable to move at the moment, as if something as basic as breathing has been forgotten. From their windows they see men powering down roads in coats, fighting something. It is known that this is not an issue for doctors. The doctors are shy and worried. They do not finish their questions. Wisdom on the matter is uniform, the situation is deprived of experts. I am so tired. Please help me. I feel uncomfortable when I breathe. Language is used to get the message out there. People make statements. A certain kind of longhand writing occurs. Houses are implemented against the sound storm. Strong houses, quilted, packed with cloth, with bunting, with hair. Persons stop to rest at the houses and breathe from the tubes. They were headed somewhere and could not make it. Instances of work feel unattainable. There is nothing unrealistic to any of this. It feels boring and legitimate. When were we not dying? The air itself feels impossible for the traffic of bodies, words. Why not get some rest? Rest is the likely solution. If only there were a knob on the wall, a burled piece of something that one could twist on, a knob to dial down the world, to spin its sound into a thin line as distant, as harmless, as the horizon itself, where it would then flicker briefly before pulling finally from sight. If only.   (story by ben marcus)