The next beat, the music shrieked into a distorted guitar riff. He was now a roadie for a fictional band called “The Zeroes,” frantically duct-taping a cable as a pyrotechnic explosion turned the sky into sheet music. Then, a soft piano adagio—he was a lonely lighthouse keeper in Nova Scotia, polishing a lens while a humpback whale sang counterpoint to his thoughts.
The world fractured .
Silence. The hum of the HVAC. The clatter of keyboards. walter mitty music