The world arrived through a two-inch speaker. A small crack, a doorway opening to a
mysterious world outside, somewhere outside, somewhere there were people
talking to me. The whisper voices of
static in tempo with the crickets outside my window on a summer night. This was my bridge, a secret passage to
another world at night. I was no longer
in a small town in a small room. I was
riding somewhere on those sounds, crackling, distant and magic. Somehow the distance made the magic more powerful. Those sounds were traveling through the air,
into space, forever, magic. And I could
hold it all in my hand.
I grew up following magic voices, always from
somewhere. Somewhere else.
Filtered through space, cradled by train whistles, highways
humming and night birds calling. Magic
voices pulled down to earth with each one carrying the tantalizing map to
somewhere, somewhere beyond here.
-Kevin Slick
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