The siren rushed through Trône street on a still early Saturday afternoon and left the street ringing and vibrant with its warring cry.
Five stories above, I heard it shriek into my room through the skylight, slit open—diagonally pointing straight at the empty blue. Despite its noble intent, it failed to shake up my languid mind—still since morning.
The sound became slow and dilated, like when conversations are had underwater, once it had passed house number 215.
What could be so urgent as to call for such a rouse? Surely everything that could ever happen had already happened, and everything that could still happen, would. Repetition was inescapable, and our every move was before-hand sprinkled with the finest layer of redundancy.
Yet it wailed.
