At ends and made utterly inarticulate due to a little silence.
Sunday by Paul Signac
There is a sort of eloquence to a shared silence that’s not easily explained comparatively, I suppose one could liken it to another shared intimacy. Let’s say the sweet rumble of words whispered in the dark, but then it is so much more, for the communication in silence is no less than telepathic and thus by nature felt deeper when recounted so a kiss. Surely there is no greater icon for that bit of magic that lays between two and still one could argue that even there in that most hallowed of moments over bated breathes there is a sort of require accord made in silence. Now this line of reasoning does lead one to ask, is sheared silence a greater mark of intimacy than a kiss? This I don’t know and now I can’t help but feel I’ve somehow gone off topic but my mind she echoes now as a pond with ripples from a tiny pebble. The answer is in there I feel, somewhere between the delight of finding another of your kind in a strange land and conspirators bonded by an awful crime.
My love my care,