The pitch must have been perfect. It was the sound his ears made when the world was quiet. That sound he woke up to hear at 4am.
The whine did not feel like nails across a chalk board, nor did he tire of it. The sound was as natural as his ears, hanging there unobtrusive but always present. It was the sound of the tiny hairs in his ear drums hugging each other and playing. A time when they are free to dance to their own beat, not swayed to the beat of vibrating air forced upon them by the world.
His moment enshrined in the sound of freedom. This was it. Shattered. For in the distance was the drone of an underpowered car mechanically muscling its way up an incline. The car might be carrying a baker to his morning mis-en-plus and a croissant or two. After all today was Friday, and I will kiss a pastry her final good bye. Gone – the drone and the thoughts of the baker.
Welcome back the whine of freedom, let me envelope myself in you a little longer, the world is awakening and you will be drowned out. The clanging, banging sounds of life will drown you out.
Whine on freedom.