As if if the concept of "silence" could be tasted.
If reason be the charge that binds me to this cell; and logic my keeper; then I shall quit them, too. Irony is interlaced within the tapestry that is nothing, save fate, entrusts me to a solitary fathom, and yet I will lie. Nigh is dusk yet, not a single grain has been sown. Restlessness combats a certain productivity with a want of consciousness. All is still.