Silence is subject. Infinite and default. The sublime, a poets' boon.
But silence is not our lot. We clutter, filling, filling. Trash skyscrapers, corpses language and noise. Noise. Wonderful, rapturous noise.
Grinding steel, movement of earth, Noises of lives, big and small.
And we're getting closer, filling infinity with our mounds and heaps. Meaningless and beautiful, what's here and what's left, resounding to the edge of reason, further and further.