Quiet,
all I hear is air, the soft purr of air.

Zippers,

backpacks being opened and closed.

Scratching,

pencils on paper like graphite on compressed trees.

Ticking,

the clock's hands declaring war and freedom.

Clicking,

not just pens and pencils but a mouse doing the bidding of its master.

Gushing,

air escaping from the bodies of users that use the clean air and create poison.

Clacking,

fingers on desks, feet on tile, bodies on creaking chairs; always in motion.

Dreaming,

something we all are doing waiting for freedom in the screech of the bell.

Falling,

white flakes of water drifting to the ground only to meet their fate.

Waiting,

a pain like no other because you know that when waiting ends it'll start again.