The Shores of the Atlantic, III

Static. A long, agonizingly long beep of the kind played before severe weather alert announcements. More static.
Silence.

We took things for granted. We took sound, color, taste, smell for granted. We took for granted the vibration of speech...

We took hope for granted. The list of things I have lost is infinite and none more important than another. Time in my perception has passed and the colors of tropical birds have the same value as a woman in my bed. Time as a general consensual reality has ceased to exist, and there are no tropics anymore, or women.

I have a difficult time appreciating the birds, though.