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Description
And in the silence not a sound
Is to be made although the air
Is not devoid of things to hear--
The little things herein resound.
The pages flip, the pencils scrawl,
A footstep here, a tapping there,
White noise is quickly everywhere.
The sniffles and the shiftings call
For little noises to be made.
The silence is not what you need;
You always little movements bleed
When stillness cuts you like a blade.
Within this room of quiet lips
The ev'ry contact through air rips.