Except for garbled vagaries and morose, disjointed sentences, severely lacking fervour and sincerity, I don't speak. And I don't speak unless spoken to. Unspoken words spill out of the pores of my skin like beads of invisible perspiration and evaporate rapidly filling the air with the ominous unsaid. They float and long for a glance, a touch, a moment. And often these muted syllables from the depth of my recalcitrant soul fall precipitously on deaf ears.
"You have become quite quiet."
"No. Its just that you don't listen to me."
"Well obviously we can't listen to what hasn't been said!"
Shall you have me speak then? My vocal chords are strung like piano strings and my guts are strung like a harp. You shall hear me speak volumes. Just leave me alone right now.
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