All else is weakness.
Tell me now, how I could search for silence when all I want to hear is the sound of...
...OPM on a borrowed guitar
---shivering in denim cutoffs as lithe fingers plucked chords and heartstrings, lyrics and stares forming a melody that knows no rhythm save for heartbeats and deep breaths, watching, waiting, unfolding a prelude to a prayer and a first kiss that sealed your fate and mine.
---a soft blanket that embraces senses and sensibilities, draping gently across leaves and awnings and washing away fears and questions, dirt dissolving with every drop, draining into a vast wasteland, a dry prison, stranger to smile and song - until you came along.
---distant rumbles travelling through skies and spaces between us, teaching me to listen and teaching you to cast your wishes upon unseen stars.
---graceful tones that mark daybreaks and promises, wind and wood, metal and magic, earthen tunes whose timbre reverberates across empty ceilings and whose echoes testify to the healing power of memory.
So. Quiet days are best spent dreaming, I hear.