Lately I've been thinking I spend too much time in silence. In my bed and reading. Now there's a wind picking up, the tree whooshes around outside my window. Bits of conversation arrive from the street below, barely dampened by the sheeting rain. Traffic cycles by in steady streams, slowing and stopping at the light, accelerating away. The cat patters from room to room. The noisy new neighbours take their noisy dog outside. The insistent tick tick ticking of the new clock I hung in the bathroom. The kind of clock you get for three dollars is a very loud clock. All the odd noises I used to attribute to the little cat Stella, I now must admit are a conversation my apartment has with itself.
It's a sad excuse for silence.
