When I go about my busy day each routine holds in store,
A motion or a memory because of you only i know,
Half the music and the movies that I've come to love,
Echo your presence and remind me of all I've given up.
My passions and pursuits have vanished from my heart,
And although I hold no appetite, dear Silence is the worst part.
I wonder if you spend your time the same way I spend mine,
For the same Seattle cloud and rain pour out from on high,
They pass above us both but we walk or separate ways,
I, fumbling along most the time, whispering your name.
I think of sending something sweet twenty times a day,
But then I feel so foolish I pretend the feelings never came.
I'm covering my crippled tracks you'll probably never see,
Because Silence is unbearable, who's knife is in his following.
See, with Silence I am never sure who is whispering,
The figures in the darkness never come to forms complete,
But separately, like creature teeth, keep me from my sleep.
So I toss and turn and fight my pillow and tare apart my sheets
Because I think he waits for me, like wolves dressed up as sheep.
Then Silence moves in suddenly, as I implore the source
From which a comforting sound can kill Silence's sword,
But hour after hour Silence presses deeper in,
Muttering his age old lies which captured greater men,
And so my empty stomach, having no substance left to give,
Now lets my strength grow thin, and the silence finally wins.
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