隐现的世界 | | Shouts (3)

In winter, he used to hear all kinds of small sounds on his way to school. He was trying to make friends with them for the past few months. They were so small. Small and quiet. They’d swing from tree to tree, or drip from roof shingles and quickly dissipate into the brisk air of December. For one time he even heard them giggle over his head. He tried to say hello once or twice, and secretly wished they’d hear. But they didn’t. All of a sudden he started to miss them.

Last night he heard his records having a party on the shelf. They pulled out his dusty turntable and jumped on it one by one, so they could dance to themselves. He pretended he was sleeping. They didn’t notice and bitched about various artists he liked. In the morning, he found his records were back in place, with a few new scratches here and there. But where did these sounds go? He seriously thought there maybe is a sound collector.