lampshade raze i heard this sound, this sort of angry but indifferent moan rising up out of the night and making itself known somewhere to the right of my head. sometimes it sounded like it was right there beside me. sometimes it sounded like it was coming from far away. maybe it was the neighbour next door. the one who thinks he's a poet and sits in his driveway for half an hour with talk radio cranked on a bass-heavy system, so loud the indistinct purr of a dispassionate voice shakes the windows of my house. maybe he was standing in his backyard, blowing the same nonexistent note into a trumpet or a shower hose at random moments just to make me wonder if i was losing my mind. maybe it was a book. a book couldn't do that, could it? books can't speak. but maybe books can grunt. maybe that's how they express displeasure. there were seven in a small pile on my bed, and two rogue agents beside them. i shifted the books around. tried to make them more comfortable. the sound didn't go away. it wasn't constant, but it was there. it wasn't the fan. the sound the fan makes is more of a distant rattle, an empty threat, a half-hearted promise to crumble. and it comes from beneath my feet, not beside my head. maybe it was my camera telling me it was dying. i turned it on. it worked fine. i turned it off. it didn't say a thing. i looked at the old floor lamp that stands beside my bed. the air from the fan was shaking the shade. it was almost spinning. i tightened it until it didn't have anywhere left to go. now it's crooked, and it throws off less light where i need it most, but it has nothing to tell me, and i don't have to question what the darkness might hold after i surrender to the strong arms of sleep. 211220 what's it to you? who go blather from