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(Reblogged from daniellekiemel)
If you listen, you can hear it.
The city, it sings.
If you stand quietly, at the foot of a garden, in the middle of a street, on the roof of a house.
It’s clearest at night, when the sound cuts more sharply across the surface of things, when the song reaches out to a place inside you.
It’s a wordless song, for the most, but it’s a song all the same, and nobody hearing it could doubt what it sings.
And the song sings the loudest when you pick out each note.
The city, it sings.
If you stand quietly, at the foot of a garden, in the middle of a street, on the roof of a house.
It’s clearest at night, when the sound cuts more sharply across the surface of things, when the song reaches out to a place inside you.
It’s a wordless song, for the most, but it’s a song all the same, and nobody hearing it could doubt what it sings.
And the song sings the loudest when you pick out each note.
If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable things (via daniellekiemel)
This makes me think of a roof in Brooklyn. One with great memories. I want to take a chair and a book and read up there. I want to make my morning coffee and stand up there and absorb the sights, sounds and scents of a city. One too huge to take it all in… I would spend my time up there attempting it. This makes me think of photography, and how taking photos is my own wordless song.
