What's your favorite song or music genre? And before you say anything, someone's music taste can reveal a lot about them so- >:^
"Mm. It is standard, yes, for the things that one likes to help inform the rest of their character. Whether those things align with expectations or not, there is still something to learn from them."
A frown. His eyes drift up to this intruder. The question itself bores him, but it is the dedication to asking him this that he finds notable.
"Typically, I do not entertain you guests at this hour. I hardly take these walk-in appointments and odd little questions that all of you have in good humor. But if you are quiet enough, I suppose I will tolerate you tonight."
The asylum is dark, with only the faint flickering lights and the distant city glow to illuminate the conversation. But, even in this stillness, it's patients are still screaming their throats raw, a cacophony of voices coming from however many buildings over. You will get used to it, after a while, is what the older doctors always tell the fresh-faced, wide-eyed interns. Soon enough, you'll learn the difference between the screamers that need medical attention, and the screamers that are just enjoying themselves.
As it turns out, there is little to do in the asylum, when there is no crisis that needs fixing. That is not usually a problem with how regularly timed and impossibly theatrical the weekly crisis is, but, in these rare moments of boredom, Jonathan takes to lighting a cigarette. There is paperwork, Doctor Crane supposes, and there is walking through the halls. But every moment that they are allowed to breathe is a moment that the doctors are waiting to be plunged back under the waves.
Jonathan lifts the glasses from his face, turning them over in his hands. Folding and unfolding them, and occasionally wiping at any of the nonexistent smudges he pretends to see on the glass.
"I don't listen to music, often. At some point, it all just becomes noise and- clearly- we do not need any more of that in our lives. Even outside of this island, and into the depths of the city, there is the constant buzz of living men. They have turned existence itself into something..."
"Music does nothing to drown out the noise, not when you can hear a man's heart beating from across the room. So why would I add to that? Can one even truly appreciate the art form- let alone pick favorites among the noise- under such conditions? Would you get able to admire Van Gogh's Starry Night if some madman with spray paint and only half of his senses in tact had taken to redecorating the frame?"
"Or is that, in and of itself, an art form? There might be some commentary, on the meaning behind undoing of what might be pleasant, so that the audience is faced with the reality that is. Mh. I suppose that would make this world and its residents quite the mural."
"Music is unpleasant. White noise is unpleasant. Every thing that exists today, and every thing that will exist into tomorrow is unpleasant. Now what does those tell you about my character, hm? Have you learned anything new? Please, do share your notes and observations when you have finished with compiling them."
A hum, though, one that sounds vaguely amused and incredibly mocking. For a moment, he straightens, picking at the smallest speck of dust on his glasses with his nail. A dot of ash that had fallen from his cigarette had wedged itself between the lens and the frame, which he quietly pried away.
"However. The woods only get truly terrifying when they are silent. Crickets learn to quiet themselves when there is something awful brewing in the dark. Even the quietest of mice stills, and tries to compress its lungs inwards so that it does not let a single breath escape. It is not the things that go bump in the night, nor the screaming of an insane asylum that bothers me."
"But, when the world quiets for long enough that I begin to consider listening to music, that is when I know something has gone truly wrong."
He plucks the cigarette from his lips, stubbing it out on the balcony railing before letting its remains fall down into the shadows down below. Finally, his unfolds his glasses again, placing them on his face as he says, "You may see yourself out, now."
As his guest turns to leave, Doctor Crane reaches into his pockets for another cigarette.
