What sound do you fear?
Is it the door slamming shut behind you? The screech of tires too close in front? The wet, meaty slap of the winged penises as they dive-bombed the last remaining human stronghold in the final battle of the War of the Flying Dicks?
The rumbling romance of the deep part of the water, the part out past the breakers, the dark blue bit. When you go to the beach, you stand in the water and face inland: you heard the call once, sinuous and sonorous in your ear, you were a child and you listened to voices like that; out you swam and you could taste the water get saltier as the continent sheered away beneath you, hundred yards, thousand, mile. You treaded water and laughed and listened for the voice over a mile of water and you felt the presence and swam farther faster and when your father hooked you under the arms and dragged you back–how did you get this far out–you struggled. You fought your father for that voice and now you keep your feet on the ground. Wade out to the sandbar, wade back.
You have no idea what it means to fear a sound.