Call me when you wake up, when you
come around. Call me to tell me you’re alive; call to say you’re okay. I don’t
want you to ask me how I’m doing. It’s up to you to decide if you care enough
to ask. But I do… care, so call me when you wake up.
I
will smile when the phone rings. I will embrace the receiver with my hand, and
let my skin feel its coldness. I will pick it up and answer with a soft voice,
but maybe I will not hear you because of the noise. The noise which always
surrounds you, occupies you. You don’t hear it, I assume; for you’d go crazy if
you did. But it’s still there, my dear. The noise of cars, and honks, and
people talking, shouting, screaming; the noise of cats and dogs running down
the street; the noise of conditioners, and computers… the noise of the town. I
wonder if you could hear me through that terrible noise. Can you hear my voice,
dear, telling you, “Come home”?
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