It could be that - by coincidence - I found you waiting, always vigilant but never tired, stranded in gorgeous blue, bound by the strains of silence, though a musical silence between two notes, and something’s about to happen, but what lies beyond the void? 

I believe silence is how nature measures time, or more precisely, the lack thereof.

I found myself beguiled by visions of dark, barren wastelands. Ironically engulfed into vagrant verses longing for permanence, thwarted attempts at reaching out to your callous self, and you are a ghost, a sin. I wandered in sound-less black for what seems an eternity, and In time I came to realize that silence is, as all things in life, a meandering line; when you find yourself in solitude, you can’t know for certain when silence has ended, can you hear silence? you can’t be sure its there, yet you know it exists. Somehow it pains me it ever got to this, you’re as distant as ever and November seems increasingly antagonistic each year. I fear I’ve finally seen myself looking down the river of constraint when I see you falling further and further away in time, fading into nothingness.