We hear only our own voices, still echoes returning to our emptiness.
Pose your questions to people and you will get countless useless answers.
In an endless silence even screams sound silent.
Our desire to say more grows bigger and what to say about it, except that saying is not always about saying, growing is not always about growing.
There is a moonlight note in the Moonlight Sonata; there is a thunder note in an angry sky.
Without space, there is no time.