Unplug

Your world hums, but you don't notice, just as you don't notice air, your heartbeat, the sky. The hum is as assumed as the notion that tomorrow the road you live on will have the same name, that tomorrow you will live, that there will be a tomorrow. Then someone drops a hatchet through a wire forty miles east, and zap, the hum is gone. So are the talking, beeping, typing, shifting, stacking, and ringing that piled atop it. It's silent, a silence so rich and vast it's orchestral. You look up--everyone looks up. Ears drink it, it slides under fingernails and into the hollows of bones. You are looking up, we're looking at you and you at us with newborn eyes, all else forgotten, bodies full and raw: alive. Something is wrong, and something is so right.