it sounds broken, choppy. a man's voice after one too many shots of tequila, though lacking in a trio of background singers. it sounds like he is perhaps not as intoxicated as the usual crowd mulling the streets, yelling or cursing or laughing obscenely.
a textbook sits open in front of me while I try to simultaneously absorb a theory of capability and the song playing in my backyard - an open space of town-houses and parking lots and hidden drive ways concealed from the main road by a patch of trees
canvas bags and post-its and empty cups litter my floor. an ikea pillow sits in my lap. I discard the text for a moment, listening to his voice hit higher notes in a rough voice, then slow down some measures to a languid and lulling rhythm. like a poem in a song. like a poem in my head.
it stops like it began, slowly drifting, and pulled away by rustling leaves. lights scatter the windows of apartment buildings and houses, and I wonder where he went: retreating from a backyard after a private performance or from a quiet spot on the pavement?
the numbers click and tok to its consecutive partner, the night drawing to its peak. the house moves as it does at midnight - the hum of the fridge, the shuffles of the neighbour below, the slow spins of the ceiling fan. familiarity rests over my body like a blanket and I close my eyes.