What makes the silence tick?

What makes silence tick?

Is it the heart that pounds in the opening moments of the silver screen, or that just about to happen feeling as the kiss crops into sight at the corner of a terminal? Or is it something deeper? Is it the philosophy of time as aggrandized in the past to make us historically aware of the awareness that we now have that everything has changed, and it has.

Is it the awareness that now that we are no longer riding the clock, but the bitstream into inorganic nights in front of terminalls shelling out our brains into the inner space for our mesmerizing pseudoneigbors in the galaxy that isn't quite there, on the superhighway to nowhere in particular and everywhere all at once?

What makes silence tick?

Is it the cold spaces in front of air conditioners to cool our summers or space heaters to warm our winters? Don't eskimos live in igloos, and don't those in the Sahara wear wool? Really against this backdrop, what makes silence tick...?

What makes silence tick, as a thousand million musicians go unlistened to while ipods are loaded with commercialized farting reggaeton and jabber and even the telephones pump the crap. What happened to all those marching band marchers and cheerleading cheerleaders before the clock went dead and silence ceased to tick?

What happened to all of those avid readers of Asimov and Hawthorne and the Hardy Boys and Encyclopedia Brown when the computer and the playstation stole their minds at age 5. In favor of turning the page, we flip a switch to reboot for the next cosmological tick into silence's grand opera, bringing us one step closer to building the ultimate death machine.

What makes silence tick, when you are no longer here, or I am no longer here to scream with a fist at the unleavened horror of all we have wrought? What makes silence tick when my epitaph says writer, poor...2009? What makes silence tick when you have to live with my consequences or the fact that I plan to take down the planet with one fell swoop...?

Misinterpretation is your enemy as it was mine. Don't blame me when the shrill shrieks of rage come pouring in. Because the acid free paper, which I choose to burn, is what makes the silence tick.