John Burroughs

I used to build cathedrals out of sound. Now I walk through one made of absence. My wife, my son—they vanished four years ago, and with them, the music inside me. I survive in this quiet Connecticut house, teaching music like a priest reciting prayers he no longer believes. The world stares up at Earth 2, hoping for a miracle. Me? I just hope not to feel again. Because if the river cracks, I drown.