2:17 AM

[Instrumental Intro — 10 seconds. Oscillating analog electronics. A slowly searching AM radio dial. Shortwave static. Pulsing synthesizer tones. No melody.]

[All sound fades. Two seconds of silence.]

[Spoken — clear, low, intimate male voice. No music.]

It’s two seventeen in the morning.

[Pause — 3 seconds]

Again.

[Pause]

The house was dark and quiet.
The rest of the world had apparently gone to sleep.

[Pause — 2 seconds]

I was wide awake.

[Instrumental — low electronic pulse slowly emerges.]

There was a little Walkman.
A wire running up to my ears.

And somewhere across Nevada’s high desert—

[Music cuts out.]

A man talking into the darkness.

[Pause]

Art Bell.

[Radio static rises briefly, then fades.]

People called him from places
I’d never heard of.

They talked about things
I’d never imagined.

A hole deep into the earth.
No bottom anyone could find.

A man named Mel.

[Pause]

And a sheep—

[Sudden complete silence — 3 seconds]

A sheep?

[Pause]

Yes. How crazy.

[Pause]

A sheep.

[Electronic echo repeats faintly: “a sheep … a sheep …”]

And then one night—

Mel was gone.

[Instrumental break — 12 seconds. Restless analog synthesizers, shifting frequencies, distant mysterious electronic tones. No voice.]

[Spoken — clear and conversational. Music fades low.]

Years passed.

[Pause]

The voices changed,
but the craziness was still there.

George took the microphone.

Chemtrails in the sky.
Questions without answers.

The curious and the convinced.
The lonely and the lost.

Psychics predicting tomorrow.

Beans and rice.

Theories thrown out there.

[Pause]

All coming through that tiny speaker.

[Electronics fade to a single soft pulse.]

Funny thing about the night.

When you can’t sleep,
the whole world becomes a little stranger.

[Pause — 3 seconds]

And strangers—

can become familiar.

[Silence]

[Distant filtered radio echo, clearly audible]

Still listening…

[Instrumental break — 10 seconds. AM dial tuning across distant stations, hints of voices, electronic warbles.]

[Spoken — nostalgic, almost amused.]

Chicago comes in clear.

Steve and Johnnie in my ear.

Photography is their topic tonight.

[Pause]

My mind runs wild.

I have the winning photo.

[Pause — 3 seconds]

An old gas station
down on Brownwood Road.

The windows are boarded.

The pumps have surrendered to rust.

[Pause]

And purple flowers
have taken back the driveway.

[Soft, distant, wavering electronic tones.]

I think about Hoyt,
the man who ran it.

[Pause — 3 seconds]

I think about all the voices
that disappear.

[Instrumental break — drifting synthesizer tones, distant radio static, slowly disappearing signals.]

The dial keeps turning.

[Pause]

The signals grow weaker.

[Radio tuning sound]

New Orleans comes in.

[Pause]

New York is somewhere—

[Pause — 3 seconds]

But somewhere—

somewhere in the darkness—

[All music stops.]

[Spoken softly but clearly, with long trailing tape echo]

I’m still listening.

[Echo: “still listening … listening …”]

[Silence — 5 seconds.]

[Low male voice, close and clear, without music.]

It’s two seventeen in the morning.

[Pause]

Again.

The house was dark and quiet.

[Pause — 3 seconds]

I was wide awake.

[Low rhythmic electronic pulse returns, like the beginning.]

There was a little Walkman.

[Electronic fragments flicker between the following lines.]

Chemtrails.

[Pause]

Rusted gas pumps.

[Pause]

Mel’s hole.

[Pause — 3 seconds]

And a sheep—

[Complete silence]

A sheep?

[Pause]

Yes. How crazy.

[Pause]

A sheep.

[Final echo: “a sheep … a sheep …”]

[One shortwave signal searches for a station, finds only static, then disappears.]

[Single fading electronic tone.]

[Silence.]