I am held in suspension, each moment curated by the ticking of a clock that measures no routine. Moments balloon into the unimagined, unexplored but like one newly-dead I grieve the small sounds of life, conversation over coffee, laughter, shopping, bickering. The crackling city streets are silent now, the passing parade of strangers and almost-loves, guttered glitter. Now life's symphony has stopped, I hear the striation of raindrops, the suck and throb of gravity, the hum of earth's relentless spin. Now that I am no longer one side of so many recycle conversations, I am the conduit of the incidental song of the universe which coincidently continues.