sybil in the waste land

Motion outside the window caught his eye and he looked up, but there was nothing to see through the hardened glass bricks. He sat for a moment longer as the music played, forgotten, then rose and climbed the stairs. He unbolted the door at the top, drew the torch from his back pocket, and made his way through the empty ground level to the front door. He released the latches, remembering to press his shoulder into the doorframe so they wouldn't rattle, and pulled the door back halfway. The parking lot was a monochrome tableau in the moonlight, deserted except for his own dilapidated vehicle. He padded barefoot across the cold grass to the rough pavement, which was strangely warm. He imagined he could smell ozone as if from a freshly discharged battery. Overhead, thin clouds scudded across the faint stars. He returned to the front door and locked it, and set off across the field which bordered his building. He could see clearly enough, even with the full moon partially obscured, and pocketed his torch. Gravel from the remnants of an old baseball diamond stuck in the balls of his feet. The ancient backstop was half collapsed, rusted through by a score of winters. It reminded him of a radio telescope like those he'd seen in old television shows. There was no one listening now, no one transmitting. He crossed the field slowly, watching. Although he was exposed here, his line of sight was unobscured in all directions, and no one could set upon him unseen. This night though, the knee-high grass was as empty as the lot behind him. He approached the edge of the field and slowed further, looking carefully up and down the street. The un-mown lawns which formed a straggly verge between the dark houses and the empty street were shadowed from the moonlight by trees lining the pavement. To his right, two-hundred metres up the road, a traffic light blinked red and amber, but no headlights moved on the street before him. He waited a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness beneath the trees, then turned toward the intersection. Along the uneven footpath stood the rusted posts of a hurricane fence. The links which had once joined them had long ago been stolen for scrap, and the surviving posts now served to turn the footpath into a giant measuring stick, with each post measuring his stride as he approached the corner and the blind blinking eyes of the traffic light. At the corner, across the main road, stood the 7-11 store, and he realised he was thirsty. He hadn't brought brought any money with him, and anyway, the store wouldn't let him in at this hour unless he flashed his bank card at its door. He turned left. As he walked along the four-lane road, an occasional car or box truck would hum past, gliding through the indifferent traffic lights without slowing. They moved too quickly for him to see the drivers — or even whether they were occupied at all. The cuffs of his trousers were damp from the frost of the grassy field, and looking back, he saw his spotted footprints on the footpath, disappearing as they dried. He walked on, past the empty shop windows. Here had been a hardware store, there a 24-hour restaurant. As he passed them, he scanned the broken doors and building corners, but he continued unmolested. He counted two thousand paces, then crossed the main road and turned off into another subdivision. Aged trees guarded the streets here as well, and he squinted intently for hints of motion, but all was still. He rounded a corner into a cul-de-sac and spied a house with a lighted window upstairs. A vehicle was parked at the curb in front of the house. He bent down and pressed his palm against the hub motor of one of its wheels. The motor was still warm, and he recognised the smell of ozone. He stood beside the car and looked up at the lighted window. A shadow moved against the ceiling of the room, but he could make out no other sign of the house's occupant. The moon had vanished, and it was beginning to rain. He blinked twice, contemplated climbing the wooden stairs and knocking on the metal door. He was cold, and his naked feet were numb. He drew his torch, and headed home. It was late, and he would need to be up early to return to this place for the ride to the clinic. TRACK 01 "Moon in Ice," Yello INDEX: 00:00:00 TRACK 02 "Old Artist," Archive INDEX: 04:13:50 TRACK 03 "Gounmiere," The 19.5 Collective INDEX: 08:17:55 TRACK 04 "Faktura," Bill Laswell INDEX: 13:04:52 TRACK 05 "The Things You Notice," Marnie Stern INDEX: 19:13:59 TRACK 06 "Rotary," Lino INDEX: 22:45:47 TRACK 07 "Alien Groove Sensation," Naked Funk INDEX: 25:13:25 TRACK 08 "Untitled," Interpol INDEX: 31:49:63 TRACK 09 "Worms," Yeasayer INDEX: 35:46:25 TRACK 10 "Busy Lives," Adam Fielding INDEX: 39:53:38 TRACK 11 "Everything in its Right Place," Radiohead INDEX: 46:41:02 TRACK 12 "Iamundernodisguise," School of Seven Bells INDEX: 50:51:62