The trouble with silence

He’s always wanted to play his own music. Just a wink past Christmas eve, he got his wish.

Come four forty three, he wonders how all his friends are doing. His phone just died, no music heard out of his speakers. But as if a mute bell had rung, drawing out the flying things overhead, he hears a familiar beat, a chant, some tired old song.

Silence, silence, silence. 

Quietly rooting for attention, his world isn’t quite ready to dissolve in black. Like how are all his friends? Pointlessly, he will try to answer this, even though he cannot. 

The trouble with silence is it has its own voice. It calls out even as you tire of it. 

Silence, silence, silence.

Silence until the sun shines.



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