In the abyss where silent screams meet melodious chaos,
where even the shadows harmonize inappropriately,
lies the paradox of our dear old friend—silent screams,
often mistaken for sneezes in an elevator party.
They say silence is golden, yet here it is a rusty shade of dark green.
It's like your cat practicing opera in the garage, utterly humorous,
devoid of audience, yet a standing ovation in its own mind.
Witty remarks echo in voids unseen, like lectures forgotten;
in the realm of the silent, even the trumpets sound paper thin.