The microphone and the audio control panel sit on the credenza, waiting, gathering dust. He was going to do wondrous things with that equipment someday, tell stories and sing songs and create aural marvels to share with the world.
He listens to the sounds of the house — the washing machine and refrigerator doing their things — and suddenly puts a finger to his wrist.
He feels for a few seconds.
“Yep, I still have a pulse.”
He takes a couple of deep breaths.
“It’s true! I’m still breathing.”
He remembers where the power switch is, and he flips it. Lights twinkle here and there across the control panel.
He drapes the guitar strap over his shoulder, adjusts the microphone, and clicks the “record” button.
“One, two, one two three four,” he murmurs.