Approximately seven hundred and sixty-eight miles per hour

While in China making a phonecall to Ireland:

The words break as they leave my lips, enter the receiver, change form, stream down the cord into the phone’s mysterious, electronic interior. Departing by wire, the words hiss behind the wall of my apartment, behind plaster toward more wire, winding out and underground, buzzing through the hum of a hundred thousand other hellos until dragged up from the earth through cables hung across concrete, block to block, arriving at some unseen communications centre, where a massive satellite-dish pointing upward shoots my digitised words blooming through the atmosphere, above China, above clouds, into space, where they reach another satellite in orbit and are bounced, cast down, hurled toward earth, toward Ireland, hurtling, hurtling, boom, scooped up by a third satellite, sucked underground by a cable swerving beneath rain-soaked streets, behind walls into my parent’s house, and barely, barely putting themselves back together, the words, before falling from the handset, falling into my mother’s, or my father’s, ear, Hello, hello, can you hear me?

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