I liked these paragraphs from a new thing:
Silence. Then eerie whispering. The room felt dank with something dark and unknown. Danny thought of a
massive hundred-legger, hanging upside down from the corner of an empty room,
slowly cleaning its legs, waiting. He felt a hand on his knee and didn’t look
up to see who it was. Whoever it was started to say something but didn’t get
past a “he”-sounding syllable.
More eyes vectored on Danny, or so it seemed. His
anger was fading into nothingness. He might have felt it if you pinched his
bottom. Maybe. All the other drummers around him were either crying or had
their heads in their hands, but Danny felt zero. Rien. Only his own anxiousness
at feeling nothing, which was somehow receding, too. How do you describe nothing? He was there, witnessing the
tears and grief, but felt neither bad nor good. He thought very briefly of a
fresh piece of chalk pulled slowly from a full pack, one that
hadn’t broken in transit.
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