With a weak tired voice, a young woman remarks, "Here comes people. Some people."

A passing train blares its horn intermittently in grating blasts of off key sound.

Rickety construction vehicles rattle tumultuously. Engines purr in burst, the whole effect a symphony of noise and irritation. At one moment there is scarcely any volume to it, at the next it is overwhelming the nearer ambience. A perpetual buzz vibrates in the air.

The chain leash of a happy golden retriever jingles in pursuit of the puppy’s activity.

Shuffling on concrete signal students passing by, between places they have been and places they must be. Are they wearing sandals or shoes?

Gushing foamy water spurts and splashes in a nearby fountain.

Indecipherable mutterings of high and low pitch carry on lightheartedly in the typhoon of sounds. A giggle or laugh peaks above the noise like a dolphin leaping from water. It is a language that cannot be understood in detail, only in tone.

And general confusion fills the hall. Each sentence seems to end with a question mark or rise of voice. Hesitant and unsure, fellow students ask about the homework. "Did we have something to do for this class?" Somewhere in the explanation, the phrase "I didn’t know" surfaces.

Words echo in my mind: "You are at your best when you are open to the sounds around you."

You are writing when mind leaks to paper, thoughts become words on a page.

You are a writer when everything becomes material, the paint for your vision.

A sleeping mind thinks of nothing. A dreaming mind thinks of everything.