Sound. As I type to the hum of traffic, the cross-hatch of MTM's pen, the pulse of keys, I sob and wish sound weren't a thing. I know people who are virtually deaf. I don't wish for that fate or mean to diminish their disability. But I am waterboarded by the sound of my own voice. People want to hear me read my memoir. Or they *think* they do. They don't know a theater critic once eviscerated my speaking voice in a review. "Etched in acid," he crowed.