Disclaimer: Don't own it, not even a teensy bit.
It would be quiet, sometimes, Mark with his journal in his lap, scarf snaked around his neck as he took turns looking down into the street below and scribbling into his leatherbound notebook.
The world would sort of continue around him during these times, Roger climbing in and out of the window, often sitting beside him, Indian style, as he plucked at his guitar and sang a few notes. Mark would peek at the guitarist from the corner of his eye, observing the long fingers gliding over the strings and the long hair in green eyes.
He'd be gone not that much later, and Collins would climb out, lighting a cigarette and smoking dazedly, or Mimi would scramble up or down the fire escape using her own personal entrance to their loft, heels clicking on the metal staircase. She'd often grin at Mark, or lean over and kiss him on the cheek in her way of saying hello, but words were never exchanged, and never needed to be.
Maureen would sometimes sit out there with him, sketch pad and pencil in hand as she planned a protest or doodled. Even Joanne would appear at times, using the fire escape to escape Maureen when she would pick a fight. Inside, they would both hear Maureen talking in rapid burst to Mimi or Roger or Collins or when Angel was alive, Angel, complaining about Joanne loudly. Joanne would exchange looks with Mark, take a deep breath, and finally climb back through the window, ready to re-face the competition.
Often though, when Collins was away, and Mimi was at work, and Roger was practicing with his band, and Maureen was doing God-Knows-What, Mark would sit alone, missing the background hum that he'd come to know as his personal silence.
And when this hum drifted away one by one and Mark's silence became dark and black and much like the silence the rest of the world was used to, he'd cry, because life would never be the same, not anymore.