A black and white film
About an old man and his dog.
There is no dialogue.
Just ambient sounds -

First, of the alarm clock’s
monotonous song.
Followed by an abrupt
cutting silence as his hand slams
down on the snooze button

Then, the sound of a coffeemaker
spitting and burbling.
The coffee, pouring into a chipped mug.
Sugar, then milk,
the clink of the spoon against the ceramic
as he stirs
the long first sip

As the man looks curiously
at something on the fridge,
just out of frame.
A bag of dogfood opening.

hard kibble ringing against the metal dish.
The dog grumbling - impatiently waiting.
Tupperware  opening
The hum of a microwave, and the beep.
Last night’s stew poured into a bowl
the rest, over the kibble.

The closed caption reads:
[Enthusiastic, sloppy eating noises]

The sound of water running
as the bowls are scrubbed clean.

The door closing as the two leave
for their morning walk.
The old man and the dog
are now sitting on a park bench.

The grass, still wet from the morning dew.
There is a beautiful sunrise
over the nearby lake.

The camera pulls away,
as music overtakes the diegetic sounds
of nearby parkgoers, birds and runners,
and teens playing hooky.

The camera cuts back to for a beat
to the kitchen
in the empty house.

The camera zooms in on a weathered
and well loved piece of paper
held up by a rainbow magnet
on the refrigerator door.

Fade to a black screen,
with white letters:
Fin.

The back porch is quiet as they stare out into the well groomed yard,
the beautiful sunrise has been captured reluctantly by the clouds
as a light rain and thunder in the distance breaks the beautiful silence.

She holds her " #1 Mom" mug with two hands
sipping her coffee quietly, silently, non-violently,
as if to avoid startling the birds of summer.
Birds, they bathe without disruption, because this morning,
Predators have turned Peaceful.

As the breeze sways the hand crafted wind chimes,
The diegetic music seems objective as he turns from page to page
The Sunday paper filled with stories of violence and hate
crimes committed with hands that aren't big enough to carry the burden
which is created by taking the life of another, including most recently,
both sisters and brothers, sons killed by their mothers, they're monsters.

but Here, on a Sunday morning, printed words are as close
as violence will ever get to their home. For every man who chooses to be
A Predator, to take the life of another, they know of at least
Two Lovers, a #1 Father and a #1 Mother.
Sitting on the back porch as the rain slows to a halt,
Tomorrow is Monday, taken with a grain of salt.

Piano plays softly in the background of her expressionless face; eighty eight keys wrapped so unforgivingly in her hair. She fades to nothing, intertwines herself with the lowest key, played pianissimo; so quiet we need to lean forward to hear past the building struggle of the other chaotic eightyseven; she is supporting an amalgamating masterpiece without fear in her eyes. I have never been given the chance to respect as much as her. I wait for the day she snaps. Repetition tinted with the smell of her blood tells me what exactly stains ivory in the quiet of the definition of the word “over”. I wonder when she’ll be so over. I’ve never seen her once break character as pain crossed with envy around her, I hate that she watches the children of our world starve, whilst she eats none herself, so I am in no right to be mad; it’s so hard not be mad these days. I wait for a day she looks down, a day when her eyes brim with tears of her own, heavy and useless after being so statue. It’s because it must be, must build to something unachievable at the top of the ribbon draped tree so we strive and forget the conditions we sign when we fall. I imagine a world where she taps her own keys, keeps no time to her own will. I long for a day when she can spell the music with her screams and my concept of monarchy is marred by the pure beauty of undoubted chaos. She is part of no background and she taste the wind on the tip of her tongue when she tangles her hair, and she can once again learn to smile; what on earth is so expected of her that I dare need to ponder this? I’ve spent every night and moment praying to gods I don’t belive in to give her wings; so scared to fasten one’s of my own in case she falls. She needs no net to fall. We’ll smash the keys, chip the ivory, learn to breathe, leave our shoes stray on the floor. We’ll feel the sand on our feet and sing to guitar; I am none the wiser than she. Let’s forget from whence we came and feel the elements of the moment in our heart racing chests and beg our brains to breathe past our laughter. This is the year to be reborn; I’ll speak when i’m not spoken to and break the fourth wall, love how the sky tells me to and smile at night. Together, I love the feeling of summer. Piano plays low like pain in the back of her head both diegetic and non diegetic in her storybook world; I dare you to teach me how to open the pages. She is background; rethought.