There is a tapping on the wall...a tapping within the wall, a tapping on the space between the wall and the slice of the cosmos that touches it barely. The tapping is the drum of a demon's bony fingers, matching time to a military tune, an anthem, a lullaby. Or it is the drum of an angel's equally bony fingers, matching time to a pop tone, funeral march, or nursery rhyme. It's all the same, demons or angels, the tapping is always the same. If walls had physical ears they would hear the slide of motion, hear the puncture of space and vacuum, hear the tiny deaths associated with every out breath of creature and vision. If walls had eyes they would watch the ride of emotions, they would watch the slaps and caresses that are men in motion, that are women in tandem, that is the cosmos in gear. If walls had a nose, they would smell the crease in time everywhere and when, smell the sickly sweet space between wild birth and whimpering death, smell the slide of stars and novas as they burst and bubble. If walls had tongues, they would root between ribs and taste dead shrivelled hearts, they would lick at murmurs and rumours of stagnant, broken dreams. But walls have bony fingers, fingers of demons and angels, they tap and they tap, an eternity of drumming for space and beyond. Troopers for a million milleniums, drummers for the journey.
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