In the midst of chaos, there lies a symphony of unsung melodies. The crunching of numbers at a tax office is, after all, an opera of dread and joy. The accountant, a maestro of balance sheets, conducts his symphony with a pen as his baton. We call it "Beneficial Poisonous Noise".
Ever tried to listen to the sound of grass growing? It's a cacophony of silent screams and whispered dreams. Scientists recommend earplugs, but only the brave try to understand. For those uninitiated, consult the manual.
Take, for instance, the humble toast. A slice of bread initiates its audible journey through the toaster, resulting in a sound akin to a tiny dragon's roar. Toast, it seems, has mastered the art of noise pollution, beneficial to mornings everywhere. Muffin tales are tales of caution.
And what of the whispers from the coffee bean? Each grind is a geometric symphony, an involuntary poem penned by the hand of inevitability. If you haven't experienced the ritual yet, you might want to apply filters to your understanding.