Quiet is merely a concept
When one resides in a whirlwind.
There is a sound after a sound.
A fleeting whisper of its acoustic imprint upon the soul, if you will.
I’m experiencing the splendour of cacophony even as the sickness persists.
Much sleep is absorbed.
Movement a touch too languid.
There is a pause in the tempo of design
A cessation in momentum
A reflection upon what is done and undone and remains.
The signal cannot be denied.
Fevers flicker
Eyelids twitch
Fingers scramble to scribble snippets
To be deciphered at a later date.

Until next time, I bid you, dear reader, adieu.


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