White City

I've been feeling so empty lately. Maybe it's the three months of silence that has gotten to me. Maybe it's the lack of music that affects me. I can't quite recall when I last heard the sound of a guitar being strummed, or a flute being played. All I know is that it has been far too long.

The day that music died... When was it? Some say it was when the last recording studio was shut down. Others claim it was when the last CD was sold out. 'When the downloading sites were closed down' is another opinion. All we know for sure is that music is dead. What plays on the radio today isn't real music. It isn't played by people. It's all computer generated and artificial. There's no soul in it.

They don't make instruments anymore. There are still instruments out there, but they're slowly growing old. There are no new strings to replace the broken ones with. No new drumskins to replace the ripped ones. If something breaks, it remains broken.

Listening to music is not allowed anymore. Unless it's the 'new' music. The artificial music. They passed the decree just a few weeks ago. Since then, it's been quiet here. White City used to be a joyful place, full of life and sounds. But since the music died, it's become desolate. There's only a few of us left. The rest has gone away, driven by boredom, despair or hope, searching for a place where they might feel better. But where would that be? They're all the same, now.

Sometimes I stand looking out my window. From my fourth floor apartment, I have quite a good view over the surroundings. Not that there's much to see, though. An abandoned car has become the home of a beggar and his dog. I often pass them on my walks around town. I tend to find myself wandering down to where I used to work. The building is all closed up, not even the name is left on the wall. I can't quite recall what we used to do in there, just that I enjoyed it. When I get back home, I usually sit down in the abandoned car and have a chat with the residents of it. The beggar, Steven, is a nice man and his dog Spot knows how to count. Steven has demonstrated this to me a million times, and I always let him do it. He's so proud of that dog. I'm always sorry to leave without giving them a coin, but there are no coins to spare. I make a living out of the money I get from the authorities, and it's only so much as to tide me through the month.

I got a letter the other day. I never get letters, seeing how most of my friends are either dead or too far away. But I got a letter. It was from a girl I used to know, Marie. It was dated four months ago, and she said she was planning to return to White City and was hoping I'd be there. I remember spending the day wondering why she hadn't yet arrived. Then I realised that no one ever returns to White City.

Tonight, I think I'm going to go down to Steven and Spot. And we'll sit in the car, talking and remembering how it used to be. If we can. Maybe we'll even sing a bit. If we remember how to, and can recall any songs.

Perhaps the time has come for me to leave White City too.