[ WP ] Mr. Sunshine is an an avant-garde sound sampler , searching the city for the perfect noises to add to his collection .

Friend, 
 
 Humans make the best sounds. I have sampled he daintiest songbirds, the smoothest ebbing tides, and the sharpest silver blades, and yet nothing has compared to even the belch of a sleeping beggar, let alone the soft crackle of a darling damsel opening a smile. Ah me, the very note that tempts me onwards! It is a youthful needle to prick my mind and point me north to hear the mysteries behind drawn curtains. So much of the sound ’ s beauty comes from its intentions: happiness, hope, and genuine love permeate its every undertone. No sound forced through lips by human consciousness could ever take its place in my heart, and so I must listen for the sounds we are not meant to hear. 
 
 Listen close, and hear one of my favorite mixes. The harmony is a loop of a breaking heart. Her prayers swell and swell into a hurricane of blubbering gasps as the arrow of harsh truth finds its target. An easy find. Spike a few drinks, crash a few cars, and suddenly someone ’ s little princess is left alone in a church with nothing to keep her company but a white dress. The bass line is the nigh-silent purr of an empty stomach. It ’ s punctuated with the occasional falling tear, a droplet of dreams splashing and drying upon concrete as a man sees the pale horse in the distance, its rider extending a bony finger to beckon him forward. This was a bit harder; you ’ d be surprised what a starving man is wiling to eat. Fortunately, with a smidgen of ingenuity and a pinch of fame, a rube tourist will follow you into an empty room and cling to the hope that you won ’ t lock him inside. 
 
 The melody may be my proudest find. Formless shrieking? Listen closer. The pitch warbles and fluctuates as the throat desperately tries to craft words – but it is alone. You can hear twinkling eyes fix on a table of bloodied parts. There is her tongue; she can not make subtleties. There are her lips; she can not form basic shapes. There are her ears; she can not hear her own screams. Can you match her shrieks to her thoughts? ‘ Motherfucker. ’ ‘ Asshole. ’ ‘ Monster. ’ My first few attempts merely fell to silence; I had to case this one for weeks to ensure that she would be properly cacophonous. She awoke too early, as well, and broke from her straps – I had to pin her hands to the chair with knives to keep her still for the operation. A shame: I ’ d hoped to catch the sound of crucifixion on record for my tribute to the Masses of the Renaissance masters. I ’ m afraid this is a project I will never complete. 
 
 The youthful needle has grown old and rusted, but still it prods into my soul. There is beauty in the darkness, but it pales to the beauty of the past ’ s warm light. Maria! My sweet Maria, my darling damsel. How I long to hear the song of your smile again. You left my arms so long ago, yet you still haunt me throughout my soul. I will play one final song for you, Maria. Cherish the tender rustle of rope against rope; a chain that tightens so I may be free. Enjoy my sputtering and gasping; not in hope to live, but only to speak your name one last time. Lose yourself in the final unheard note; it was the only sound I never understood, and yet the only sound you ever truly cherished. I pray that we are at last united in silence. 
 
 Mr. Sunshine
