The saxophone blares above the sorrowful strains of the sarod. And sudden drumbeats enter the trope. I am scared of the music. I am scared of you. I am scared of me.
I fear that your humming shall drive me mad. It is monotonous and everlasting. I close my eyes to keep the sounds out. For a moment. When I open my eyes you are gone. But the humming remains. I fear I no longer love you. It is because you have made yourself smaller and faster than a hummingbird and flown away. The bird has flown away. Only the humming remains.
I need a drink of water. I find something sticky instead. Is it sweat? It is glue. I drink it anyway. I wish to vomit. But the innards stick. And the sarod sings sorrowfully.
You are a purist. Instruments don’t sing. They hum? But that makes you an instrument. I don’t understand. You say they vibrate. As far as I remember we all do. In our limited capacities. I am now scared of me. I am scared of all my molecules that spin. And hum. The humming drives me mad, I tell you.
But you have flown away.
When the humming stops it’s the sarod, and when the sarod stops it’s the silence and when the silence stops…
“Where did you discover the body? Oh how dreadfully mutilated! How sad! Where’s the musician? Gone? That always happens. She died strangled with a sarod string, you say? That’s impossible. They’re awfully delicate. They snap at a moment’s notice. I am talking about the string she apparently killed herself with, not the girl, you stupid hummingbird…”