Too Quiet

Standing there in the bog in southern Ireland all those years ago, there was an immenseness about the green marshy hills that was so intense I thought I might be swallowed whole in it, willingly, and become absolutely nothing in the mud and the bramble and the twisted barren branches and tree trunks and  frost and solid blue air.

These are the types of memories that strike me, at random, on nights when the silence becomes so loud that I fear it might drown out my senses entirely with its roaring.


About A B

"There is all this untouched beauty, the light, the dark, both running through me." -Over The Rhine
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