when silence talks back, the only sound of a perfect voice is the assurance of whats there. An equal fight of a poet's own tone. For the craft you wished and the times you walked. For miles it seems. And silence. And... no more comments! They all keep rushing and tapping me on the shoulder.. like a ten year old kid. That stranger in the invisible Ford. What? The wishing of wanting freedom, wanting out. Out of this damn car i say! The hopes of something better. Perhaps.. its my time of grief. Maybe even those Simon and Garfunkel "sounds of silence" music video we were watching the other day... on the sofa, drinking Tab.