There are several rooms. Some are gilded with the stars from the East and the North, where on the roof, they twinkle and revolve around their planets. Exquisite! They breathe as they dim and shine. Here they go around Jupiter and then around Ganymede. He enters this room, totally unknown and bothering no one, switches on the lighting and sits down on his bench. No one knows where he is. He doesn’t want them to know either.
In another room, there is Silence sitting on his piano, pushing his fingers against the slender keys. White. Black. Black. White. Two at a time. Three at a time. His fingers dance and produce the finest of the music – the screeches of the worst type, the tins, the dins and the screams that make Silence what it is. Silence doesn’t like visitors. They don’t like listening to Silence's music. They interrupt Silence repeatedly. They speak of their own rooms and what they do in there. They speak of all types of non-sense. Things which despite having a meaning, are hollow. Words need to be read. Music needs to be heard. But why should such words be spoken? Silence hits on to his notes.
Silence loves silent visitors. Thus, Silent shifts room. Silence moves in with him the moment he lays his bench. Thus, he and Silence, they make their own huge village in that small room. It spans across the bench. There are papers. There are pens. There is only the sound of his breath rhyming with Silence’s music. Every moment or so, there are screeches of a pen as ink is spilt on paper. The stars dance to his rhythm. Around Jupiter. Around Ganymede. Around the tiny little asteroid lurking behind the shadow of Ganymede. Their lights zigzag around the floor. The atmosphere is enhanced. The room is congested. There is no room for anyone. He likes it there. Silence likes it there. Everyone is happy.
Behind the glass door, Noise lurks tirelessly.
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