Do you hear that?



Sitting in front of me, waiting in this room.

Can you feel it?

The smooth surface under my bare legs?

The endless white that meets my horizon?

The vibration that hits the edge and spread to the next country?

Can you hear the cracks and valleys of my path?




I know I am only a speck you have suddenly spotted,

but, do you hear it?

The earthquakes that travel within the layers of paint?

The moving shadow of your pen?

I know you can hear it.

You are now staring at me.

And your head begins to tilt.

I can see you blaming me for interrupting your symmetry.



You can hear it.


Don’t lie.

This is not a fact to lie about.

I see.

You are deaf.

How unfortunate for you to sit there with a questionable face and not be able to hear architecture.
White Noise

Deysi Blanco
April 2016