The room is deathly deliberately silent, tall skeletal shelves looming, their bones branching out and patiently waiting in balance amongst the earth, perhaps upon their heads (perhaps not.) Somehow it’s a race and I play it-albeit frowning-and I can now easily understand how it’s a “no one else does” way of life.

In the room quite unbearably off-center I am surrounded and enclosed by books and diagrams unorganized and forever untouched. Dusty and grey because there is no real change within their hearts or sinews or environment, so desperately unneeded and evolutionless.

I hate sound as it echoes and breaks all, swaggering and wringing ugly images in my head. A faint fluorescent buzzing: fine, a closing door is not. I cherish this rare silence as my mind (and all being) is so often and easily overwhelmed and excited. In such superb silence everything is easier, clearer, brighter.

I don’t often realize its importance.