~ The sound my flat-soled Doc Martens make, I as I sprint down a gravel road in the grey-blue moonlight, to catch the last ferry off Gabriola, is the sound of two dictionaries being slammed together.
~ The sound my harmonica makes as it hits the floor of the CHLY studio, where I forget about it and it probably still sits underneath the console desk, is the sound of a tin measuring cup landing on a linoleum kitchen floor early in the afternoon.
~ The sound of the young woman‘s voice on the street below my window, wide open in the dark june heat, is the sound of an animal, full of frustrated anger, in a cage being poked with sticks by children full of curious wonder.
~ The sound of people typing emails to clients and loved ones, in a rare moment of office silence, is the sound of someone juggling Chicklets in their mouth behind you ina nearly empty movie theatre while waiting for the show to start.
~ The sound of Die Schadenfreude, at practice, is the sound of a giant fun-fur covered machine grinding itself into sawdust.