Listen to the shoes of office-workers counting along the pavement, and your

own shoes adding in their numbers. Write it all down as music, the black notes

clicking and tapping.
High above the multi-storey carparks the sun jellyfishes past. So slow. So

slow. The numbers drift upwards into a belljar of silence.
Feel the hands of buildings stroking your face, the electricity that lives in your

hair, furs the inside of your ears. See how everything is cloaked in sequins of

light and when it rains, hear the rain’s thin tinsel.
Even in the bitumened streets the dead are busy beneath traffic. Their teeth

chatter in the soil, adding and subtracting.
Count the trees growing out of holes, roots cracking through tarmac as if the

dead are reaching for your shoes. Touch the cloth of their bark as they pass

you. Try to remember the music.