When the world thins
And my senses become hollow
I can still define the lines of your fingertips
When colors dull
And light slowly bends
I can still find the soft hues of your warm auburn eyes
When my breath runs away
And I can't slow the beating in my chest
The sight of you is where I find my rest
Oh how the way you look at me stills my heart
And though my mind may still scream
And my aimless anxiety may steal reason from me
I can endure knowing the clarity you bring

She paints her face
With bright blues and greens
Wearing them out for the world to see
She strides down the streets
So proud of her masterpiece
But they hate it
They tell her that's not right
The colors are too happy and bright
So the next day she creates a palette
Of pastel hues and somber blues.
Yet they're still not satisfied
Those colors are not appealing to the eyes
And she believed their lies.
Her tears wash away all her failed tries
And she paints one more time.
She splatters grey on her cheeks
And paints her mouth black to hide the white of her teeth
She became what they wanted her to be
And for the rest of her life she wonders why can't I just be me

I want to be
A figure on the tv
When I say that I don't mean
Like an actor or even someone that has a line
I just want to be filling the blank space
because that is where I thrive
In the blind spot of the eye
I'm there but not really
I exist but then not
I just want to be unseen
It makes you wonder if existence is within or rather perceived

When asked "do you believe in love?"
I really don't know how to answer
I mean what do they want me to say
"Yes, of course I do, just as I believe in today"
But that wouldn't be completely true
Yeah, I have felt the rush
Of a crude schoolyard crush
But that's not really anything is it
It's nothing compared to the fireworks
I'm almost positive will go off
When I meet
The girl of my dreams
And there you can see
How quickly things can become corny
That's why I'm afraid of this question
It takes the real
And places a hallmark seal on it
I mean when it happens
Of course I'm going to write sappy love poems
grossly romantic sonnets
And I'm sure it will make everyone uncomfortable
Just like any good romance
And I'm going to love every moment of it
But don't commercialize the idea
It is so much more than that
You don't just believe in love
You live it
In your actions and your words
It's not just something that holds a place in your mind
To help the chocolate and valentine market thrive
It is something that is worth working for

I am weird
There are parts of me that I should be embarrassed to show
Yet they still flow out
And the thing is I don't really care
For you to know
The parts of me that aren't exactly "socially-acceptable"
I'm obsessed with the cultures of the past
I'm in love with the Muppets and Fraggle Rock
My room is full of old disney records and cassettes
I will scream across a room and blame it on the person next to me
I'm addicted to being addicted
And as I say that I don't mean
That I'm addicted to any negative things
Rather I'm addicted to chocolate and coffee
To corny movies
To collecting everything
(Which, no matter how much it seems so, isn't hoarding)
I believe in the unseen
My faith in God is the core of my being
And I have a deep seated faith
That there is one person out there that is able to love me
For everything inside that no one else wants to see
And perhaps have their own oddities
That I can become obsessed with
And together we will fall into a form insanity
Deeper than the ones we currently hold to
A form more commonly known as love
And it will be awesome

I don't know
How quickly
This distance is closing
Between you and me
Sometimes I imagine myself
Following a line of string
Through a forest of densely knit trees
Weaving slowly 'neath the bending eaves
And hoping that I will soon come into a clearing
Where you are all I see
Holding the end of this bright red string
And that it would be that easy
But sadly it's not
I'm afraid I'm merely lost
Finding signs where there are none
Maybe you'll just grow tired and come find me
Sitting under a tree writing piles of romantic poetry
Just twiddling my thumbs
Which is just as likely.

How do we fall?
This question quietly sits
In my head as
My eyes rest on your lips
It is astounding, how the air quietly closes around us
Entombing us in the time that exists between the words
That at this point seem superfluous given the state of my mind
I am currently in free fall waiting for something to catch
And I continue to grasp
Yet it is in vain
For the way your hair falls from your braid
Has dissolved all ground beneath me
How could you look at me in that way
That buckles my knees
I do not know how I am carrying on
For I am falling without hope of ever getting up

There is within me a fire
I feel it burning from the ends
Of my calloused fingertips
As if it is exceeding my soul
When I recede, it grows
At my end, it echoes
Into the vast unknown
Though unassured I am
In the faith of my hand
I can rest in the known promise of that flame
It warms my soul
As it does all who hold
The communion of its glow
Bringing all people into one
Unified within the Holy Ghost

She was quiet
as if thinking of her favorite story, or song
yet I, knowing them all
knew that this couldn’t be the reason
for her sudden silence.
My heart beat quickens
her eyebrows arch,
and I remember the day we met
in the back table of the coffee shop she loved.
I said hello, and she said “why?
Where could this go?"
She said “we could talk.”
“you could buy me a cup of what you may suppose
would be my favorite coffee.
Probably some darker roast
with some mixture of cream
highlighting the coffee’s floral notes.
I would pretend to like it
though you would later find I only drink tea.
We would leave, and I would give you my number
because I’m awkward, and by the look of things,
we would talk about our wants, our desires, and dreams,
and stay here way too late, I would get more coffee
to complete my act,
and by the end of the night you would probably have swept me off my feet.
We could go on a hundred more date,
and find that we love each other.
We may last a couple more months, or years,
but we would end up here.
Me sitting with nothing to say,
and you too sad to move on.”
I said, putting down the coffee I had bought for her,
“well the first part sounded good.”
As her mouth draws into a line, I fear we may have reached the end.
My heartbeat races, knowing from the beginning how this would go.
She would say “this isn’t working anymore, this thing we’ve tricked
ourselves to believe was going somewhere.”
and I will try to capture everything, the look of her hair, the gleam in her eyes
to maybe save my memories from the coming crash.
She begins to talk with hesitance in her voice,
something that I haven’t heard there many times before.
“I know I made a promise, at the beginning of this thing,
I know you pressed on hoping for the best,
and I know I may have eventually led you to believe
that we had beat the odds, or at least my dim look at them.
You know I’m a mess, a cynic, and even a ****, but you stayed
and kept hoping.
Maybe it’s contagious because I have found myself hoping too.
Hoping my predictions were wrong,
and I think, looking at you,
looking at us, I have never wanted to be wrong more in my entire life."

I'll remember your absence
For its the only thing you left
The empty seat next to me
The oddly cold feeling on my chest
The missing cups of cold tea
With only a tad left
Placed mindlessly
In the midst of beautiful thoughtful revelries
When your fingers left indentions in your dress
Indentions in the grass where you slept
As if they were just as hesitant
To see you leave
That they held your shape just to remember you were there
I'll remember your absence
For its the only thing you left

There must be a creator for I can feel the artwork of the stars inside of me
The brushstrokes of the mountains within my genes
I can reach for the heavens, see the things hidden, and believe
Believe in he who painted the seas
He who breathed
Life into being
Into beings like me
Though minuscule we are
Who can recreate the beauty we see
From you, the almighty
The source of all
Beginning and end
The blessing in our bones
The one who bled
His soul into our own
He who signed his life into our veins
I am forever thankful for the ability he has given me
To laugh in joy and in sorrow weep
The ability to see beyond the veil
That separates the people
The body of Christ
Unified in his sacrifice
Yes, there must be a creator for my soul has found solace
In a world that only knows suffering

Is God a man
I mean society sure seems to think he is
He holds us in his strong hands
Protects us from the pains of the land
But when did these traits become exclusively masculine
Can patterns of love be defined by gender
Can the glory of God not transcend our fear
Of not being able to understand
Not able to label
The one who made the land beneath us
He is strong and meek
knows both war and peace
So which traits make God a man
Since when did a creator become defined by the works of his hands
Why can't God be God
And man be man
He our savior
And us his servants

I have to start somewhere
So I thought it should be at the top of a page
I know this isn't poetic
I rarely am myself
But I have to speak
Don't ask me why
I just must
It is who I am
I don't know how to shut up
I know that isn't eloquent
But does it really matter
As I said
I'm rarely a poet and this isn't a poem

I am spaced out, distant, bored.
The teacher is running on and on,
while I am lost in some other world
tracing storylines of heroes, kings,
princesses, knights, jesters, and queens.
Writing romance beyond any I could ever wish for myself.
My pen is running across the paper,
writing down my thoughts and figures,
hoping it may somehow make it more real,
like if I poured enough of myself into these scratchings
they may leap from the page into the air
and bring my narrative to life.
I would not go as far as to call myself a writer, a poet, a dreamer,
but I do write and I do dream, and I put more of my emotion on a page
than I do into anybody or anything.
I lose myself to worlds, in which I only visit,
yet they are more home to me than any I know.
I come to with the ringing of a bell, and find that I had spent
the past hour staring at this beautiful girl,
ethereal and wrapped in light from the barred over windows,
long blonde hair, brown eyes, and earphones perched in her ears.
Thinking I may still be daydreaming, I blink a few times and time starts to still.
She smiles bashfully, knowing I had realized my mistake, and gathers her things.
Leaving me to think, maybe the story I’m living isn’t that bad,
and perhaps dreams are even better when they are real.

I want to start this with a question.
Why, you may ask.
Because I know that there is power in questions
There is beauty in pondering and wondering
There is value in trying to understand the unfathomable
To try to rearrange the heavens into shapes and patterns
That makes sense to us
Questions hold such potential
I mean just a simple "what if?"
Was enough to launch men to the moon and back
Was enough to bring empires to their knees
Was enough to get that girl to go out with me
Questions make the impossible possible
And the intangible real.
They make infinity seem just a leap away.

He died knowing how beautiful the stars are
Yet without the tongue to form the words
He died watching the beauty of a spring storm
Yet without the hands to paint them
He died hearing a young woman speaking prose
To the man who held her terribly close
Yet he was without the mind to put it to strings
To place it in the bells of the brass horns
He died with a broken heart
Though never held by anyone
He was without the voice to sing it out
As a wailing shout and have others call it honest
You see the fatal crime was not a mundane life lived to death
But rather death laying on a man ever since he was a sickly kid

It is not known from where a reaper comes
But perhaps it is from an artist, dead, before he ever lived

I'm sorry the clouds no longer spell your name
That the wind doesn't sing
An inspired symphony
That only we know is about you
I'm sorry that the spring
No longer blooms
Only to be graced by visions of you
That the grass no longer makes room
For your mid afternoon wanderings
Nor holds your form for hours after you move
I'm sorry that my touch can no longer perceive
The dreams behind your light blue eyes
And that I can no longer differentiate
Blonde hair from your once spectacular gold
But above all else
I'm sorry that though the storm hit us both
It was I who let go

I am starting to fear that I am loving you to death
That the silent faith in this quiet embrace
Is pushing you the wrong way
I know that you waver with the passing days
But I can't find it in me to say
Or scream, or yell, or do what it would take
To make you even turn your gaze
To just see how you are so far away
I know where your path leads
Yet I stay silent
I mean I may share
A whisper here or there
But that is far from what you need
You need me to leave
To let my absence speak louder than the words I never said

This flesh is a prison
With desires and wants in stark contrast to my own
The sin of our ancestors
Has placed a price on our bones
That we will never be able to repay,
Yet there came one
Who let the blood be arrested from his veins
To pay
The debt that would, in the end, demand our lives
He took it upon his head as a crown
And let it draw that dark red blood to the surface
And form puddles at the foot of that rugged cross
To be the pools of salvation that will save us all
He took on this fleshly prison and let it be slain
To free us from this cage

There is hope now
For I can feel it slowly decomposing as I sit
The bars to this prison are slowly eroding away
And I find myself greatly anticipating the day
That I shall escape this fallen cage
And step into the glorious kingdom that awaits.

Oh how the dark has closed around me
There was a time in which I would breathe it in
Let it flood my nose and drown my lips
Yet I have grown to hate the taste
It once was so sweet
Though it loomed like death it was as sweet as love
Now as the night has taken me as its own
I look in distaste at the cup that I hold
The coffee that I once held dear
Has long ago gotten cold

I dream
As we sit in a star laced scene
I wish I could be your everything
Yet
As the words form on my lips
I realize a kind of awkward thing
you can't be that to me
I know that sounds kind of ****-ish but let me explain
I'm not incomplete
And you're not my missing piece
So why do I want to be yours
I don't want to be your world
I want to be my own
And if that means that we're not in each other's orbits anymore
So be it
For, when the night places things where they're meant to be
I know that I can't be your everything
Because you're already complete
There is no hole for me to fill
Or a gap where I perfectly fit
Or any other one of those pastel pictures
That we love to define love with
You are more than that
and the love that we share
is not some dependent creature
Needing our constant filling
For when I am the only one giving
I am certain it will devour me
So let it be
Place it on a shelf with the rest of your trophies
because we must either start again or end whatever this is
For dependence must never be confused with love.

We sat there not knowing why or how. Though there was consciousness written on the signs in our hands, our hearts were devoid of the words. It had been too long. We had wept too much. Though we still bled, as all do, we didn’t bleed red, for red was human and we had transcended… descended… such a state.
No one had won. All had lost. We paid such a price to what needed to be done that everyone was left with such a human debt, a word that had come to define this day to day existence. Debt, we had spent all we had, borrowed from each other and now here we sit. Our cries remained unheard. We canaries in the mine shouted until we ran out of breath, and though we now lie dead, the miners are still digging up their riches remaining deaf to our cries.
Know that we tried. When the collapse comes, know that we screamed our loudest. Bled until there was none.

I keep your note in an old cigar box
Well maybe not, but wouldn't it be more poetic if I did.
Truth be told there isn't even a letter.
I mean I wish there was, I wish with all my heart
But there's not.
There are no words for me to pine over.
Or phrases for me to dissect what you meant.
No calligraphy to cause me to get nostalgic,
Remembering the good times
But that might be because there weren't really much of those either.
I wish that you were more.
I don't mean that in a mean way,
I don't really mean it in a good way either, but that's beside the point.
I wish you were more to me.
More than just a time I don't like thinking about,
Or a topic to avoid in polite conversation.
So, for the sake of the story, let's just say
I keep your note in an old cigar box

I find myself in the books I keep by my bedside at night.
I imagine the words slowly seeping into my dreams
And painting the skies with the oddest shades of green
And the rivers that flow through the restless land
Move along with the breath of my lips
That I see rustling the sails of the ships
Waiting for the wind to send them to lands unknown
Yes, I find myself in the books
That I have stacked on the pillow by my head
And for the hours that I allow my mind to fly
I am the hero
I am the knight
Saving the damsel in distress
I am the weary and tired traveller running into the arms of my beloved
I am the one facing the dangers of the dark
And in that moment,
I am fearless
Not because I find courage in the space that exists
Between dreams and reality
But because in that moment
I know that, though those words may be chained to that page
That they are part of me.

I don't know where this started
But it seems I can see the end
What at first seemed to merely happen
Has become too much of an effort to mend
The weight of unresolved pain is slowly ripping us apart
And only now do I know how the way I handle hate
Isn't conducive to caring for a heart
You gave me yours
And I did likewise
In a misguided effort to draw a line
Connecting me and you
But now those lines divide
And our hearts are no longer tied
And I feel like I've lost a piece of you
maybe I have
I've tried to find
The heart you freely gave
But it seems it has been misplaced
Or as I am afraid, you might have taken it away
So this must be the end, there seems to be no more
So please just leave my heart on the end table
On your way out the door

The rain was falling in its usual haphazard way
Sporadically coming and going
Leaving me to accept the dampness that I attempted to delay
I say attempt as if it was earnest, yet my only shield was the paper from today
So truly, all that remained of my “attempt”
Was a sopping wet mushy mess
And I was left at the will of the chaotic fates
But as if I had called them by name
An umbrella harshly hit me in the head
In a flurry of words I could only pick out a few
With many of them being profuse “sorries” and a peculiar mixture of “what did I do’s"
What initially appeared to be a speaking parasol and a plume
Of brightly colored and rather endearing pastel hues
Tipped back to reveal
A Beautiful, short, red headed girl
Staring up with eyes painted a bright sky blue
Though my tongue had left me and I had become unglued
It seems I was capable of uttering a rather embarrassing “how do you do”
Immediately I realize my mistake in my haste
Which was probably immediately evident on my face
I had in an instant traded my usual southern twang
For a rather poorly performed and probably offensive English impression
I quickly turn away
Taking long strides before I find a place on a crowded park bench
Yet as I am about to sit
I feel a light tap on my shoulder
Slowly turning around, knowing the statistics were currently against me
I see the face of the girl I had just moments ago
Effectively ran away
I mean figuratively
Because it was literally me
Who had done the running
Yet all she had to offer was a smile
A small upturned grin
That ceased all attempts to explain what my unappealing dash had meant
For I knew I would meet with embarrassment again
Yet she quickly put my fears to peace
Offering the umbrella she held in her hand
And walked with me under the trees
Leading me to the reasoning
That though things may seem haphazard and drastically varied
Everything still manages to fall exactly where it’s meant to be.

There are questions in this old forest
Decomposing with the bodies that lay forgotten
They are brittle as the bones they rest on
And stir along with the flesh that is no longer
Tattered clothing clings to the apparition
The form of one who no longer exists
There are questions in this old forest
Questions that shall never be answered

Woe to the heart of the fallen man
Trying to pull himself up again
****** and bruised
He can't stand to lose
The eye of the Samaritan

There is hope in his outstretched hand
To calm the fears beaten in by the land
To dry the tears
Of the torturing years
And heal the wounds of the man

The scars reach down to the bone
The pain of a life lived alone
Laid out by
The tiring fight
He cries out in an agonized moan

There comes a force unknown
That lifts the man to his throne
On his trembling knees
By the mercy seat
The man is no longer alone

It's as if the knowledge of our terminal nature
Awakens the fatal agents in our bones
That it is only when we learn of death
That we start dying
Such as with childhood
A time defined by ignorance of an end
Seems infinite
Yet as we start to see
Our favorite characters in the books we read
Reach the end of their adventures
Even with the promise of happily ever after
It is evident that just as the lines on the pages ceased
The lives told of in the story therein likewise fade into history
And then
It clicks...
In that instant we see the disease of fatality
A true virus to be caught
Transmitted through literature and tragedy
Crescendoing to an inevitable crash
No cure to be discovered
Only catalysts that act
To speed the immutable throws of death

Dear Beloved,

  I have traveled through the land trying to find a place for us. I've been watching the sunset from the hills that line the country trying to find one worthy of your beauty, and I've become afraid, for it is an impossible task. Please forgive me for sounding sentimental, that isn't the purpose, yet I have found myself unable to find a place perfect for our dreams. Looking for trees that will sing the best harmony to our lulling minds as the winds of the night blow across the star laced meadows. A place where the hillside is painted the color of your deep green eyes, yet I am troubled. For I'm afraid it doesn't exist. I have found that you have ruined me, for you caused me to believe that the things of dreams were able to translate into reality. You are my captured fantasy and I'm concerned that I'm being selfish in asking for another. So while there may not be the perfect place for us, I know that in your gaze I have found a home.

Yours truly, and yours alone

Oh how the cursed ground
Opens before me
Ready to swallow the sins
By which my hands are bound
Though it is in my trespasses I hide
It is by Christ's salvation I am found
So though my flesh will perish
And return to the soil from which it came
My soul will live on
In the name which has claimed it as its own
Though flesh will join flesh
In that gaping pit
It is the breath of life which will transcend

This is where I find myself
In a place completely new to me
And it seemed to happen
in a mere blink
I am lost
Dropped off
In a foreign land
With no means to find myself again
It's actually fairly tiring stumbling around like this
And I don't really have the hope
To maintain this illusion anymore
To seem like I know what I'm doing
To perform confidence
For the deserted landscape that surrounds me
That is why I must rest in the shadow of the cross
For there is no longer any lasting shade
All other landmarks have long ago faded away
Leaving me to bear the blunt force
Of the ever burning Sun
That is the last bit of hope I have left
A little mustard seed
But soon it will be replaced by a magnificent tree.

O eternal father,
I lift my weary eyes to you, for you are the sustainer of my soul.
I come before you with the dirt of the ground permeating my clothes,
Yet you love me.
You accept me as one of your own
And allow me to approach the throne
Of you, my father.
It is truly an act of grace
For me, the worst of sinners, to enter this place.
The Holy of Holy's, where priests would get struck down
And their bodies pulled out by a rope,
And I am able to sit here and revel in your presence.
If eternity is a magnification of this
Then I can't comprehend how my soul will contain the joy
Of sitting with you as a child with his father
Listening to his booming voice
As we grow up we see our fathers as superheroes
Which is an understatement for you
You first allowed us to rebel
And then sacrificed part of yourself
To right our wrong
How could I ever deserve this.
How could I, the lowliest of creation
Deserve a relationship
With you, almighty God
I pray
That I will never allow this salvation to waste
In the grave
For you are the resurrection
I am so susceptible to the strikes of man
And would turn a blind eye to the glory I know
For the chase of the vain lust of the world
Lord, slay this part of me
As you laid your son on that cross in my stead
Don't allow me to go a day without reminding me of the sacrifice that was made
To pay
The debt that I made
In my rebellion to you
I worship you, the great I Am,
For in you I find the provider of my soul.

I see her in my dreams
Now I know that may be cheesy
But with me it has a completely factual meaning
She is literally in all of my dreams
Though I can't say that I mind it
But the problem is I dwell on things obsessively
I don't really know when to stop
So you can imagine my ire
To the fact that when I do successfully block my thoughts of you
They only wait until I'm asleep to make it passed my guard
And now here you are
Standing in front of me
Making it difficult to discern if this is reality or a dream
For currently you make up the majority of both
Yet you speak in a way that I had never even had the courage to hope for
Not even in my wildest fantasies
Asking "would you want to get coffee with me?"

If today is a page
In the way
That time as a series of events was laid out
Formatted in the same way as a novel or epic
Would the things that happen in a moment be great enough to make the final edit
I'm afraid
That if someone were to read me like a book
They wouldn't make it past the small summary that lies on the inside
Or maybe they would just see my name
And think "I've read this before"
Lending my life story to the cynical thought of "that was predictable"
Or worse yet make a game
Of what is the next thing he'll say
That is all I can think of, because that is what I would do
Am I living in a way
That every moment you could look at and say
"Now this part is important"
That it would be impossible
To open up to the middle
And "get to the good part"
No, they would have to read every sentence
Not one unimportant in the scope of the ending
It's somehow easier to live life that way
As if you're an author
Trying to save every word
From the tyrant editor
Packing weight into every single page
One breath leading to the next
Leading your life up the steps
To the great tomorrow
Life was meant to lie on the lips of old men
To exist in the smoke of the pipes held in their hands
To pour from the mind to all those who would listen
Full of hero's and friends
That character that makes you laugh with every line he says
To be read to sons and grandsons as they lie in bed
Dreaming of the tomorrows and the stars overhead
Maybe today could be the part where they reach out their hand
And plead for you to tell it again
For it is their favorite part
Where the knight saves the damsel in distress
Or maybe when he merely decides to live again
Maybe today is the page where everything changes

She was in the space between here and there.
You see, I try to jump from point a to point b, without a thought to the steps in between.
I found the search for meaning in the journey to be futile,
Yet that is where I found her.
She sat at a coffee shop, sipping on tea,
While reading the eyes of the shadows moving through these spaces,
Familiar haunts like me, unrealized silhouettes,
Without gravity in the moment, yet promising authenticity in a day that was as fantastical as they were.
Eyes were drawn to her,
the way that she filled up the room,
the only physical thing, in this group of ghosts, shadows
those betrayed by promise and hope
and hoping the world would pay them back
for the loan, and a poor one at that
a miserable job for a dilapidated home
doorways they won’t grace but for those sacred few hours
food for kids who don’t see enough of them as is
Now don’t get me wrong, I did see it
I saw it in her fingers,
that tired fiddling as if her hands couldn’t stop moving
in fear that they couldn’t get started again
In the way her mouth sat, trying to smile
but still heavy as if unspoken words were weighing them down.
Her eyes stared as though she was so alone in this alien world.
She lived in the in-between, and that is were I found her.
For a fleeting moment I wanted to stop.
To slow down and hear her story.
This mystic individual of substance in an immaterial world,
But my feet wouldn’t stop, my hands wouldn’t stop moving.
I had forgotten how to slow down and I found myself orbiting her
as a tiny comet would get caught in the gravity of some celestial sphere.
I was merely a ghost, a common haunt,
Passing through this physical space for merely a moment.

I have faith in the ground under my feet
To remain unyielding
To the eroding
Of the trees.
Who's roots weave
A web of earth
Under me.
But through the decomposing
I have found myself falling
Through the land
That hides under me
Unseen by these eyes
That desperately cling
To the ideas that are structures in my belief
They are being attacked
They are under siege
From the same ground that once supported me
They are crumbling
They are fading
Under the light that has set me free
From these ashes
Arise a hope reborn
In the land of my fathers
My newfound home

The silence is deafening
I fear it as one fears the dark
The emptiness
The lifelessness of the unknown
It awakens in me a desire
To fill the spaces
To yell and break the curse
But somehow I know that would make it worse
I want to send a melody into the dark
But it has a hand on my throat
And it silences me