Tuesday 17th April, 2012
"White noise is just a louder silence," he says, and takes a long drink from his glass of Merlot. It's a late autumn afternoon, and the low sun is striking through the windows and painting the carpet orange. My uncle is sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning back onto the wall. He has arranged a series of small fans in a semicircle around him. He occasionally leans forward, turns an apparently random one of them on, listens to it dissatisfiedly for a few seconds, and then turns it back off again.

He says: "If you rest with air moving in your ears, the voices that you can't escape are quietened, at least. All the words other people speak just by being alive stop being your problem." He strikes a tuning fork on his own head and listens to it, then turns on two fans on opposite sides of him.

He rests his head back on the wall and hums. The sun dips behind a cloud. He stops humming and his breathing becomes more regular.

The air from the fans catches his hair and throws it up into deltas and sigmas in the air. My uncle sleeps, untroubled by the unquiet whispers coming out of the walls.

posted by Rob Mitchelmore, 14:00 (anchor)
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