Justin Keith Morgan

I, too, Mr. Freeman, believe That if we no longer speak it, then we will no longer hear it, and it   will be —like the color of skin— something we no longer see.

so much depends upon a red box of Trojans ® left under the bathroom sink beside the white Q-tips ®

( Saturday morning. The living room of a two bedroom flat on the fourth floor of an apartment building. A MAN and WOMAN sit drinking their coffee and reading the newspaper. ) WOMAN: Oh, for heaven’s sake! What is that ridiculous noise?! MAN: You’re hearing things again, dear. WOMAN: You didn’t hear that? MAN: Oh, what is it this time? WOMAN: It was just outside the window there. MAN: Well, what did it sound like? WOMAN: It was a screech, and then a growl, or a-- There! There it is again! MAN: Oh, that’s just the wind. WOMAN: The wind? How in heaven’s name could that be--Oh, there it is again! MAN: I’m telling you, it’s just the wind against the shutters. WOMAN: Well, I’ve never heard such a racket in all my life! Go out and latch them shut, won’t you? MAN: I just sat down. WOMAN: Oh, for heaven’s sake! ( The WOMAN turns and leans her head toward the window, listens, and waits .) WOMAN: I don’t think the wind’s even blow...