And then it was noise
The seats come up thwap-retracting as the crowd stands to ovation. Applause, standing applause in a swelling surge of a surf-roar, of palms smacking out whomp whomp whomp. Somebody whistles. The noise is a rush, a roar, a whoosh, an undifferentiated din of sound.
For a moment the clapping all synchs, sticking, a unison of palms beating a beat and then it breaks, toppling over louder in disorder like rock tumbling from the top of a load in a slide of grinding grating dust-raising down into a rubbley pile.
I wanted to be deaf. To have always been deaf, to have never have heard, never have heard this, this standing ovation adoration of noise thrown like flowers to this man defending torture because it wasn't that bad and it was ours, so okay, and it wasn't as bad as Stalin, so keep you pride in this nation, this nationalism.
I could hear nothing but the noise, the horror of the noise eating the world.