Satan Loves Celine
It has started again. This time at 6:46 a.m. Someone is being tortured. I can hear the screams. I can hear the wailing. Someone is being tortured for...what is it now...fourteen days...seventeen?
Maybe it was always there that background noise of human misery. Over or would it be under the hum of truck engines, honking horns, Spanish workers calling out instructions, a jackhammer, helicopters, galvanized pipe dropping one block away, the clanging muted by distance.
It is I who am being tortured, by the instrument of Celine Dion. Those are my screams you can't hear, muted by one man's desperate attempt at holding it together, his feigned efforts towards civility a futile joke.
Oh thank you God in all seriousness for turning up the volume on those grinding gears, that turning cement mixing drum, those screeching brakes, the cries of children either happy or sad, the flapping wings of the mourning dove's exit, I cry out my thanks for these gifts from Heaven.
But then always the waves of silence. Over which comes Satan's Delivery. The war waged eternally. It is a question of tastes. I don't wish to judge.
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