Words are windows, they say, hinging silently, framed in fading irony. Yet, still I speak in absence, only expect you to mimic back— ad infinitum, the truths of silence.
"I'll echo your thoughts, but louder," said the echo with a grin, "It's cyclical."
"Silence isn't golden," you chuckle, "if golden was more silence odyssey." Your syllables curdle menacingly. Reference points blur, conspiracy theories of verbal loops, theories on why silence speaks.