The rustle in stillness, a dance of shadowed confidence and whispered doubts. Beneath the veneer of tranquility, chaos brews; a symphony of digestion, processing experiences as nutrients or toxins. Reflections scatter like light in shattered glass. Each shard revealing another angle of an everywoman's loneliness, a mirror flaring both warmth and frigid disarray.

Is there comfort in this noise, I wonder? Words spoken when no one listens to the void echo back. Methods too abstract, weaving colors where the canvas is yet to exist. A standing ovation after death, greeting poison like an old friend—detrimental truths rest leisurely in my lungs.

It is not the sound that pierces; it is silence that sings to the cacophony inside, contending and consenting, making decisions for a peaceful war.