I returned from an hour of silent twilight on Ulriken to the stifling intensity of the city. There was talking everywhere, a shop, a siren, lasers piercing the sky, a tractor beside a half-dug ditch, a woman with a dog asking directions. I pushed my way through the noise and decided the click of my key in the lock would be the last sound for a while.
Except the hiss of melting chocolate, the pouring of milk, the gentle bubbling as it boils and the soft tapping of keys. I would whip the cream by hand, to hear nothing but the whisk’s rhythmic chick against the metal bowl, but no, by then I might be ready for sound again, for electricity.