If we truly respected silence, then we would not write. Why do we write, anyway? To hear the sound of our own thoughts; but we already know the sound of our own thoughts. Why say anything. Every word spoken is like a stain upon the silence and nothingness, the silence that is better than this, that is more than this, that says so much more than words could ever say. Stop; cease; mors est queis viatoris — finis est omnis laboris.
When you stare into the eyes of your lover, you are silent, and thus we should be silent, stop staining the world with our words, which mean nothing, which have never meant anything, and thus are better left unsaid. I have to drink to even write this, because it’s all so dumb, so dumb, so profoundly dumb, every written word limiting you into less than you wanted to say, so let’s make a truce; no more words. For why did we use words in the first place, let’s end it, end it all, for have you ever said what you truly meant to say, no, you haven’t, so please, let’s stop. For in the beginning was the word and the word was god and the word was with god, but now we see but through a glass darkly, and we are not doing, have never done, a good job of describing things.
Counter-sign this plea into infinity, and embrace the silence, which is the only time that you’re ever happy, anyway, standing alone in the woods, lying in your lover’s bed, being silent, the only time that happiness creeps in, so stop, stop, please just stop. Lower your head and show some respect, as we are deeply lost in the night, just as one sometimes lowers one’s head to think, thus to be lost in the night — and so therefore, no more words, and please just stop, and think, think quietly.