I have some twenty old radios, some with vacuum tubes, some with transistors, bought at the flea market.
One day, I imagine arranging them along the walls of a room, its windows flung wide open to let in the noise of the city.
Then I would switch them on and tune each one to a different frequency—news, music, sports, whistles, static—settle into an armchair in the middle of the room, and listen to the silence.