Sound covered every available air wave in the room; he could barely hear himself think. He pounded his hands on the notebook that sat on his lap in a steady rhythm: one two three, one two three. He had no true percussion abilities, just the amateur beats that he drilled into his own mind. His mix tape would be ending soon, the loud barrage of music coming to a stop.

"For a second I wish the tide would swallow every inch of this city as you gasp for air tonight!" He yelled to his computer screen, as if he were singing rock-karaoke. He felt exactly as the song said. "I'd scream this song right in your face if you were here," he continued. What a life, he thought, what a life I lead. Everyone is such a screw-up. He began to mourn for the world, the sad world with corrupt motives and ugly people.

The music slowed, then stopped altogether. He thought he could hear his mother sigh from the kitchen. He found himself wishing that he owned a different CD to listen to, but Dutchy gave him this one as the last installment of downloaded songs because he became scared of the RIAA. Which reminded him, did Dutchy call?

He looked to his answering machine, one new message. He pressed the play button and waited.

"Hey, I know you're there. I can hear your music from halfway down the street. Maybe you can't hear the phone, I don't know anymore. Um, so you're listening to that CD I gave you? Hope you like it. It's the last one I'll ever make; I'm serious, so stop trying to hoax me into making another one. So, yeah, just wanted to know how you're doing. You know that Beatle's song, 'Hey Jude'? Yeah, it's like this: don't be so bitchy about it. You know how he is, it happens all the time. I know he didn't mean to-"

He pressed the stop button. Better save this message for when he was feeling a little less angry. He inhaled deeply through his mouth. Slowly, he counted to five and exhaled. He picked up his notebook and set it on his bed. A blank word document was open on his computer screen, but he had nothing to truly write. He stared at the computer screen blankly, hoping that his homework would complete itself.

Inhale. The air hung stale around his ears, and his own breathing remained to be the only thing he could hear. Exhale. Why did he have an answering machine again? Inhale. It's not like anyone really called him, except-

Ring! He would let it ring three more times and then listen to the message. Ring! Ring! Ring!

"It's Anthony, not here, leave a message, maybe I'll get back to you." An unsaid 'goodbye' floated in his throat, but at the time he could not say it. He placed his fingers on the keyboard: asdfghjkl.

"Racetrack, I know you're there. Dutchy told me," Inhale, exhale. "I swear I can hear your stupid rock music all the way in Brooklyn," Inhale. "Pick up the phone," Exhale. "Stupid ass-wipe, pick up the phone," Deep, calming breaths, Racetrack. "We never change, do we?"

"Of course we don't change, shit-face. I try to make shit better for us and you just go and fuck up again," Race bitterly spat at his answering machine.

Long pause, sigh, "When was the last time, Race? Wednesday? And today's Sunday, so that means it's been four days since our last fight," Inhale. Racetrack looked at his blue Bible, which sat on the side of his desk. Exhale. What is this still doing here? He had given up on religion a long time ago. "So I guess I said sorry? I lied again."

Inhale. "All those words were bound to fail," Race said, reminiscing Spot's long apology. Exhale.

"Yeah, don't expect this apology to be any different." Inhale. "Might as well stop talking before the answering machine hangs up for me," Pause, exhale. "I guess it always comes down to this... So, I guess, talk to you later, maybe? Maybe not. See you sometime? No, alright, whatever," Deep inhale. "Bye."

Race swiftly picked up his phone. "What do you want from me, Spot?"

"Nothing. Glad you decided to finally talk to me."