It's late, and as I ascend the subway platform I pass the only popular restaurant in the nieghborhood. It's vibrance has been quieted by the October chill and all I hear is the dull roar of unheard music and baseball from inside. A few passersby engage in conversations that fleetingly sound like they're referencing their feelings about other conversations.
Once past the tavern, the first thing I notice is the almost rythmic sound of cars passing by. The slow build of cars rushing towards me from a distance crescendos and peters out under a dobblar effect. The steady stream of one after another forms the sound mark of my evening walk. It's ever-present and punctuated by the ocassional car horn. Not even my steady footsteps call as much attention as the constant, subdued array of passing cars.
Here and there my attention is drawn to random sounds in the distance. Sound signals of laughter, conversations, and the occasional yell. I hear a bang. The kind of bang I hear once or twice a week. The lack of screams or yelling proceeding it makes me assume it has to be a backfiring car. It's too far away to know for sure.
I pass my local grocery store, the lone star in an otherwise vacant night sky. It's the one place where people are actively walking and talking to such a degree that I can't make out a single conversation. The encounter is brief and I descend back into the relative quiet of the neighborhood. A car rushes towards me from a distance and peters out under the doubler effect. The quiet is now only cut by the bark of an unseen dog until my jangling keys signal the end of the walk.
