/ /

Behind the hiss and ring that is the damage I have done in the brash ensembles of my foolish hours lies a stillness

I may never touch again, though I know too, as John Cage says, none alive touches true stillness and survives. There

will always be a hum of nerves, without which silence goes unheard, however presupposed, half a figure, half a ground,

the shadow of a voice, a cry, perhaps, or, if we listen deeper, a sonic landscape. Silence as the ghost that walks the long

white halls of paradise or intensive care, knocking on doors no one answers, looking into rooms with breathing machines

whose oceans are bottomless, dark, and darkly engineered to put the tormented ear to sleep, because they are not there.