I like how a ticking clock sometimes becomes silent, as if it knows you’re trying to hear it. So obviously shouting the seconds, almost throwing it’s voice across the room. Time passing, lapsed, forgotten.
I dislike the rustling of carrier bags full of shopping, but caught in a tree they find a different sound. As if released from the burden of weight. Tethered to a branch, but almost free.
The door slammed in anger sounds so delicate when silenced by the gentle hand. Like the ferocity absorbed in the silent click of the latch.
The hip hop booming from the traffic “look at me, look at me” repetitive beats in the summer breeze. No meaning, no matter, just as long as it’s heard.