The other day, in my morning haze, I found the quiet spoke like an old friend.
Do we ever listen to its soft protocol?
It's not just the absence of noise, you know. It's the hum of thoughts not yet born, the echoes of words never spoken.
It's like walking through a dream where only footsteps are heard, tracing paths in the mist of unvoiced sonnets.
What if silence held conversations?
You might think I'm mad, but there's a certain wisdom there. An understanding in every pause, like knowing nods between kindred spirits.
So let's not rush to fill the void with chatter. Let's sit, breathe, and let the silent sonnet unfold.