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Chambers fill with the wrinkles of the empty, of silence spinning plates in the ears. Where the fall of the metal between sheets of concrete and sheets of glass hold thinly to the guise of conversations. Reach out and the arms extends forever wanting to touch, falling short and keeping only a blanket of despair to warm the backs of fingers, itching of blood and scabs of a weekend folly.
Volume increases from the back, and hairs stand up on the shrill of others pacing back, forth and all over the barren studio floor. Tasks are from the side and the effort to decrease increases with the edge up between the quiet and the commune.
Chatter scatters across the walls and the loss of hearing breeds all too quiet a scream for the ears only needing that one voice to empower any day.
Wednesday, 6 June 2007 - 18:15
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