096 - The Song

Some nights, when the moon is dark and a black-out kills all the lights downtown, the city is seized by a preternatural silence as all the televisions, cars, ceiling fans, radios and conversations come to a stop. At this time, a song can be heard lilting through the streets and alleys. If you are downtown when this happens, follow it. You needn’t worry about where it takes you. The route is chosen carefully for both existential and physical safety.

When you finally find the source of the song, it will be a small group of glowing musicians, each about six inches above the ground, suspended by nothing in particular. They will be in a large, decaying room on the second floor of a building that normally seems to be in better repair. Their clothing is always reported as being inoffensive earth tones and about ten years out of style. The music they play is haunting and lilting and rarely corresponds to their instruments. It will be sweet and quiet once you actually find it, despite the great volume it must have had to be heard blocks away.

The musicians are fellow travellers who passed away in the last year or two and their song is meant for the ones they left behind. It is the most profoundly sad song you will ever have heard. If you don’t recognize any of the faces, you will be left with a profound sense of melancholy that will never leave you until after you die. But if you do, you will be granted catharsis, and all your sorrows and rage will be burned away.












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