It is little more than a series of short hissing sounds. Then there is nothing. Just the silence of the convex black screen. Blockish green figures mar its blackness. He puts his ear to it, but still there is nothing. He turns away from the screen.
Across the room a small canary sits humming to itself. It is a green bird. He cannot figure out why this is so. The man, not the bird. The bird does not concern itself with things like green. Only the man does. Or at least the man is the only thing in this room that does.
He turns back to the screen. It remains unchanged. He waits a moment and then taps it once with his thumb. A dull thud. Then he looks away.
For some time now a pattern has been developing on the carpet. At first it was nothing, he thinks, but now it is something. It was always assuming new forms. Inscrutable patterns very nearly emerging but ineluctably sinking back down. He thinks that if only he stares at it for long enough he might be able to stop some of these patterns from sinking, but he never can. There is simply not that much time.
He turns back to the screen. He has not been thinking of it. Its green blockish letters are like a rebuke. He smiles in shame. He promises it he won’t turn away again. He stares at the screen. Faintly, perhaps, a hissing sound emerges. He presses his head to the screen. Yes, yes, he thinks, there is definitely some sort of hissing sound.
Across the room a small canary sits humming to itself. It is a green bird. He cannot figure out why this is so. The man, not the bird. The bird does not concern itself with things like green. Only the man does. Or at least the man is the only thing in this room that does.
He turns back to the screen. It remains unchanged. He waits a moment and then taps it once with his thumb. A dull thud. Then he looks away.
For some time now a pattern has been developing on the carpet. At first it was nothing, he thinks, but now it is something. It was always assuming new forms. Inscrutable patterns very nearly emerging but ineluctably sinking back down. He thinks that if only he stares at it for long enough he might be able to stop some of these patterns from sinking, but he never can. There is simply not that much time.
He turns back to the screen. He has not been thinking of it. Its green blockish letters are like a rebuke. He smiles in shame. He promises it he won’t turn away again. He stares at the screen. Faintly, perhaps, a hissing sound emerges. He presses his head to the screen. Yes, yes, he thinks, there is definitely some sort of hissing sound.
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