Mark Falkin - The Late Bloomer

It is believed this sound is the sound of a garage door closing. The car (type footnoted above) was found in an auto repair facility, Advanced Auto Repair, in Bay City, Texas, approximately twenty-one miles north of the Natural History Museum parking lot at Matagorda Bay. KGM’s boat bag was recovered from inside the car. Dr. Warren Jespers’s draft paper and the notes from Professor Kenneth Fleming and KJL were found inside, copies of which are attached as Exhibits B and C.

By time stamp, it is almost evening.

This voice belongs to Jonathan Livingston March (“JLM” hereafter), KGM’s younger brother, Johnny; me, transcriber and editor herein.

JLM, like Nate before him, speaks here in that “wet, flangey” voice. Around the world during that early period of weeks to months after the “day of” (now known as New Day or “ND”), though scant accurate records exist supporting this with this recording being the strongest. It is believed that no more than a few children were speaking, JLM and Nate among them. It is not yet understood why during this “transition period” the population did not speak. The “thing” referenced here is the digital voice recorder KGM has had with him throughout.

In my normal voice, I sound upset here.

I say this in my normal voice.

I have listened to this innumerable times and have employed different techniques to bring up the sound clarity. Knowing my brother’s voice, vocal inflections and what he was trying to say, I am confident that what he said here was: “You’re a liar, Johnny. Things don’t just happen. You can’t talk about it because it won’t let you. I know it’s not you. It’s making you do this. Just remember that. It controls you. It needs you to need it.”

I believe I hold the recorder and have started recording.

Apparently I hold the recorder close to the mouth of the trombone.

Also known as “The Saints.” Though KGM plays an instrumental, the opening lyrics to this famous song of the old world are as follows:

KGM has snatched the recorder from me and speaks into it.

These early days—especially once I left the late bloomers with Rebecca to be with the children—are very foggy in my memory, nearly a blackout, but the memory of that moment on that morning on the beach is sharp enough. I do know, I do remember, though it hurts my head like memories of the old world still do, that it was my stone that knocked my brother unconscious. It struck him just above his right occipital bone.