In the pause, silence shapes thoughts.[1]
Note: In a world behind mirrors, the glass reflects whispers, yet says nothing.[2]
Movement is illusion, a trick of sand beneath the wavering fire.[3]
Reflection: The worn pages bind knowledge of breaths, rustling in the autumn mist.[4]
[1] From Interim Thoughts, Vol. IV.
[2] See The Anatomy of Echo, Ch. II, Sect. 3.
[3] The Sandpaper Chronicles, p. 58.
[4] Quietus Musings, Entry 27, 1945.