#jaymie writes

There is an old, blind god that sits in a cracked pile of stones, and listens to the world around him. He listens to the distant trains that go by, the roving packs of coyotes howling, and the rooster that crows in the morning. He cannot touch the world, nor can he see it. Yet he is still content to sit. He knows the night by it's chorus of crickets, and the day by the laughter of children, and the barking of dogs. The dawn brings silence, broken only by the songs of birds, and certain cool summer afternoons bring the sound of a metal baseball bat, echoing over from a nearby park. He loves his gentle world, and his smile is content. Often, he wishes he could touch this beautiful world, see it's swirling colors, and taste the sweetness of it's food and air. Yet this is his lot in life. His self made prison, unbreakable from the years that it has held. Sometimes, the rain scares this so-called god. He can almost feel the cold of the storm, by merit of his loneliness. He is not worshipped. None know his name. His people offer no gifts to his pile of stones. He has nothing he could offer in return anyway. He cannot affect his own world. He is merely an observer, a ghost locked away by his own design, his own ancient choice. Strangely though, he is happy. He is happy to sit and listen to an owl's cries. What a rare sound to grace his sonic home. What a welcomed visitor of the night.