Red paints the dry, cracked earth; the red of the setting sun, the red of the innocent. But in rose-tinted glasses, the world looks pink; where is the red? A faint cry echoes in the distance, lost in the music singing from metallic headphones. The headphones are clasped tightly on either side of a motionless, expressionless head with unseeing eyes. The headphones may as well be silent, for the ears hear nothing anyway. When people cannot hear, how can we expect them to listen? Or if they refuse to listen, how can they hear anything but their own thoughts? Words float from memories, memories of love and laughter, but the words lie crumpled and bleeding on the ground; they too will be memories soon. But the ears hear nothing, as though the lips never spoke, and the eyes are open yet closed. A question lingers in their distorted clarity: if we cannot see the setting sun, then will night never fall?