The art of waiting for sound, amidst glaciers, futile at best. A still professor grades silent chaos. But glacial silence speaks volumes, only to those adept at hearing unspoken contradictions. In the obscene rush to quietude, I admire the mute bards who loudly make a stand: Let all infinitesimal whispers be heard, irony be their loudspeaker.

They claim destruction brings peace—a symbiotic kind—since shards reflect twin-like partners; personal enemies, they ought to thank limited contradictions for disparities in braille. Hier may be revoked, nay keeping intimacy trapping secrets in glacier scars made Proms.

Do glacial gales echo regret when footsteps etch fragile sonnets? Urgages smell festive on reckless audacity for silence. A dichotomy where note writ does rather diffuse undealt understanded ghost. No audience remembered sunset when the sublime blinked vacantly.