First:
"Can a thought exist if never voiced, cradled in the arms of silence?" A pause hangs longer than the question, echoing somewhere beyond.
Last call at Margate:
"Another cup, perhaps, light as the stream of a wayward stream?" Was it a question or the reheating of evergreen resolve?
Somewhere along the railway:
Elongated truths glide beneath the train’s rhythmic embrace. Touch the world, yes, we do with feet dipped in something other than rain.
An artist's pondering beneath an old oak’s canopy:
"Brushstrokes of sunlight, and the caterpillar thinks it's love.” And why shouldn’t they? Under this lunatic dedication to absurd quietness, reality bends.
Beyond the horizon:
"When the clock no longer ticks, does a moment stay suspended like whispered secrets?" The stars twinkle in agreement, steadfast in their tuneful silences.