Can you hear it, too?
Well before the sun was anywhere near the horizon, Typist fluttered her eyes and looked at the red numbers on her ancient clock radio. She scanned her body — not 100%, but improving. Good ‘ole Shakespeare was right, she thought… How poor are they that have not patience. What wound did ever heal but by degrees?
“I feel good! Nah-na-nahh-na-na!”
“Who is that?” Typist asked.
“It’s me… Thalia. You had to ask? Like I knew that I would… Nah-na-nahh-na-na!”
“Not who’s singing in my head — The artist! Who is the artist?” Typist asked.
“I feel nice!” Cal sang and stole Thalia’s signature twirl. “Like sugar and spice.”
Typist cleared her throat. “Anybody?”
Three muses were now singing in harmony. “So good, so good! I got you!”
Typist decided to enjoy the concert. She started a cycle of ten deep, rich breaths with an intention to get up when finished. Around breath seven… Woof! Breath eight… Woof-woof!
How does Henny always know I’m awake?
Calliope grinned. “I think she can hear us singing.”