Moore's Mythopoeia

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A voice they could all remember spread out over the city. Through it, all things were explained; without it, nothing was known. It is life, and that life is the light of the city. The voice resonates in the bourbon dawn, but the light has not understood it. It is familiar to them all, but no one could say where they had heard it before.

The crowd is listening, they’ve stopped with shopping bags in their hands, with bagels and cream cheese hovering inches from their lips, with Styrofoam cups steaming in the cold morning air, with confused eyes, and whispers. No one will say what they are thinking. This is the voice of an individual, speaking. This is something I’ve heard before, but not in my lifetime. The crowd is listening, teenagers in uniforms, popping bubble gum, shifting book bags, forgetting to think about the way they look to others; tired mothers with exhausted children sniffling over a toy they weren’t able to buy, a piece of candy their hateful parent refused to purchase for them, the women intent on grocery lists, dry-cleaning that must be picked up, children that must be driven to soccer fields, friend’s houses, dinner that must be prepared, appliances that must be received from fix-it stores; businessmen who are hurrying to high-rises and meetings. The street is frozen in time, no one can move. The voice has caught them like the corner of a desk grabbing a loose sleeve, jerking them to a standstill. Car doors are open, but no one’s gotten in. Buses are waiting for their passengers, but no one’s taken the first step into the cabin. A policeman, directing traffic, has stopped the entire intersection, his arm lifted, his whistle still attached to his lip by dried saliva.

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