This is a bell. A whistle.
There is a bell. Or a steam whistle and it becomes the thing which directly orders their lives. They wait for its signal and without their signal all they do is wait. They rest in a state of listening. They rest between the signals of the steam whistle. Or the bell. The significance of getting a bigger bell for a growing city. The significance of the signal, that all can hear and all can be called to attention. Called together. We are called together by this steam whistle. And here is a recording of the actual liberty bell. And hear is a recording of the actual steam whistle that signaled from the water front saw mill. The rain came down, never the less the window was open when she tested her tape recorder and you can hear the steam whistle clearly in the background.
This was the bell I was telling you of. It summoned everyone within earshot. It was the thing that bound us together. Our minds are all separated, and then the steam whistle sounds and our minds are all together. We are waiting. We go back to work. The whistle, the bell. The familiar outline of the icon, even the tangent of the bells crack familiar. We love this object because so many have gazed upon it, kissed it, pried a flake from it.
The dead president was laid beside it and a line of mourners three miles long slowly passed by both, looking at both of them that day, bell and man, and the bell absorbs all of this.
If it were to ever ring again all this could be heard in that sound.