it is later now and it is silent. silent but for the roar of the train as it carols through the night time and for the rumble of the washing machine as it spins lauren's clothes. silent but for the lift and drop of fingers on keys, the creak of the chair under me and the way i thumb the floor with my toes. for the humming of the woman who is walking down the street, for the rush of the car too fast to the intersection, to the breath in and the breath out sound of ignition. for the little rattle of leaves against branches, the scratching sound of fingers on elbows, on ears and on scalps and the far away distant whining of sirens, barking of dogs, talking. if i listen hard enough, maybe, i can hear the sound of sleeping and the descent into it, the click click click of jawbones popping, the lifting of a knee and another knee just after it, to follow the shape of the pillow. i can hear the sound of heart pumping blood and minds just thinking, of them dreaming too, though that is softer. i can hear the way the eyelids close, then open almost, to close again, untightened, against the colour of the day.