received insistent notes passed from hand to hand to

city of quiet: 16 postcards...

eye contact was         must have been thousands

...from an imaginary city, where no one has spoken for several years

listening to the wind in the fucking trees

(echoes and memories, mirrors and thread)

veils. The black cloth that covers my face, and now the Quiet

sixteen stories, scattered across a map of the city

cannot tell you how long the         run a finger along certain lines on a face

sent to people all over the world

Quiet and my mask has fallen

thick streak of aural muck across auditory fields that were already becoming

in muscle tension, body scents, tiny movements of the eye

(click and drag mouse across blank spaces to read invisible text)

is a high, penetrating sound. Buildings resonate at a lower frequency, often muffled and distorted. Trees are bell-like, with extraordinary range. When it rains, roads become bands of white noise

never silence, all this time we