Palm trees, date palms standing sullen, waiting for a breeze, all the while arched gracefully, upended smiles, seagulls, pennants.
There’s a mute on the city, silent figures scurrying back and forth, doors slamming, tires squealing, shouts of vendors, music–it’s all there, but simply silenced. A blanket of mute-ness has descended, flooding choking slipping through the cracks in walls, pouring through open doors and soaking up the sound, blocking the space between our mouths and our ears.
And we hate it, the silence. The cacophony of the city, sirens and horns, the cats we curse in the middle of the night, car alarms we want to rip out, drop off the highest point in the world and let that sound trail away, fall from our ears—we’ll fight to have them all back. This mute world is hostile, relentless, and we want the old, flawed, familiar one back.