Sometimes at night I hear the train whistle rise above the sirens.

But the whirring of the police chopper’s rotors drowns out all else.

Makes a sound like an industrial drill boring a hole in your skull.

Makes a feeling like Winston Smith working at the Ministry of Truth.

I have been rewriting history for almost seven years.

And in the silence following we count our heartbeats.

And in the following heartbeats our silence counts.

And following in the heartbeats counts our silence.

There is selective silence between the history I rewrite in my mind.

Only a few others hear it. We shouldn’t be there. It’s time to move along.

My mind rewrites silence between the selective history.

We shouldn’t hear it. Others move along. Only a few, following.

In the silence we will move along, writing our futures, following no one, our whirring heartbeats rising above, drowning out history.