"There are all kinds of silences and each of them means a different thing. There is the silence that comes with morning in the forest, and this is different from the silence of a sleeping city. There is silence after a rainstorm, and before a rainstorm, and these are not the same. There is the silence of emptiness, the silence of fear, the silence of doubt. There is a certain silence that can emanate from a lifeless object as from a chair lately used, or from a piano with old dust upon its keys or from anything that has answered to the need of a man, for pleasure or for work. This kind of silence can speak. Its voice may be melancholy, but it is not always so; for the chair may have been left by a laughing child or the last notes of the piano may have been raucous and gay. Whatever the mood or the circumstance, the essence of its quality may linger in the silence that follows. It is a soundless echo."
(Beryl Markham, West With the Night)
I wish that the times before this weren't so fleeting.
The rush of the weekend's comparative warmth, left us aching for spring. It is a type of yearning that I forget exists during the warm months.The months that pass too swiftly.
I think about how tasteless the air is here. So cold, at the same time sharp and stale. If it has a taste, then I have lost it. Ice smells of nothing, yet it brings a certain odor to the air, declaring it's presence with stale frost.
They are calling for more snow tonight.