A man ties himself to a tree and begins to sing. It is a song that everyone knows. He is looking for a harmony, but sings with his eyes closed. There is a number inside him that he wants to alter into a something like a light blue pillow. Right now it is a sharp object. A bird watches him. It considers the broken tune with all the weight of its mind. It watches the man as flecks of spit divide the debated air. Unable to intercept the melody, the bird departs for better company. The man’s mouth dries up and becomes a exhausted desert where nothing lives. The only song is the sound of grains of sand striking against each other in the wailing wind.