It is very very quiet.
The menu music from The Sixth Sense dvd is looping. The fan in the computer is whispering, to itself.
It's dark.
From this angle, the windows show nothing but flat, empty black...and dim reflections of the room. There, is a translucent super-imposition of a person, typing at a desk. On a screen: words leading up to a cursor that blinks like an unset clock.
And those tidal silences -- moving here, pulling back to there.
There are the vertical blinds, swaying in the currents from the air-conditioning. Here is a pale white sea shell, placed on a keyboard. Each are silent...differently. This night could roar, but it would be a roar under hours of velvet, and distant as doves.
Quiet is flavored, nuanced, like the rumors of a hundred names for snow.
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