The universe is a vibration infallibly tuned. Each star hums its dirge; is the song made of silence or echoes?
Between each syllable of existence, one finds the unsung melody. Does reason dance to this soundless tune, or does it simply listen hollow?
Whistling winds carry cryptic messages; do you hear them? A call to attend to the invisible orchestra's serenade.
Ink does not evaporate like sound, but can it displace fortunes made of whispered copies?