White Cliff Powder

Guitarra filled. Drum struck. She is so silly, stage walking was nothing she had done before. Clumsy, walks against an ivory microphone. She engages her jaw, her voice unleashes a first note. Like machinery in the middle of the night, constructing a skyscraper in the middle of an empty valley. And she unleashes an "ah" and an "oh".

I listen intently, wait for her to finish. She grabs my hand and we walk uphill, to a bench made of pyro plastics that shines in the night. Inside it: water, see-through bright fish swim.

She tells me to put my ear on the bench's end. Water drips through the tiny hole. My ear gets soaked. She walks to the opposite end. Puts her mouth in the hole and takes all the water in one gulp. All the fish dive into her mouth until the inside of the bench becomes air, empty transparent bright air. She keeps absorbing and pulls my ear inside. It is now only air. My head unable to move, its all empty space. My body cannot move, I give in, I deform and all of me goes in, one limb at a time, Through the hole and into the bench. She jumps in.

We are both miniatures in the summit of a hill living inside a bench. We walk to the edge of the bench and she places my ear agaisnt the pyro plastic wall. I stay still. Those would be the best acoustics I will ever listen. Pitch perfect in G minor she sings:

Unwashed coastal cliff
You have waited too long
Stabding tall alone
On the water's edge
Dry, desertic, salted

Oh, coastal cliff, unwashed
Your toes dripping
Containing tides
Most of you dry

Today is when waters rise
Today, we claim you
Today, coastal cliff, you get washed

The wait is over
Coastal cliff
Drown and float away