sound
He's taken to stomping, again, much to Tink's dismay. The noise
of his boots on London's concrete surfaces is a noise that thrills him
to no end as each sole slaps against the floor. In a city like London,
everyone wears shoes. But he doesn't care about the rules, or the
fashion or the protection that the boots laced onto his feet comprise.
No, what he cares about is the sound. That and the fact that Tink gets
sooooo frustrated with every thud. Beyond his own boyish commotion the
city is coming to life, waking up as the dawn pulls the sun into the
horizon. The hum of motors, the buzz of electricity, the murmur of the
crowd. He's infatuated with all of it. It sends his head spinning.
Still, it's not his noise. Thus, despite Tink's fussing, he sends another foot plummeting downwards, this time landing with a heavy splash
in a puddle of murky grey water. He grins at both the sound of the
impact of foot into puddle as well as the water as it flies upwards
over his legs. 'Are you done?'. No. He isn't. The city is full of puddles this morning, and he's determined to meet every one of them.
