The cafe was quiet,

almost silent as the

sun swam across

the ocean, drowning

away as the night

flew across the sky.

Her voice was quiet as she

read what she had written,

"It is as if you're traveling

down a long, cold, empty,

road to nothing and then

there are those days, where

you hear every single body

around you talking about how

they spent their day dancing underneath

city lights or smoking underneath

a leafless tree...

and then you think back to what

you were doing, and all you can

recall is your head in a book as the

raindrops sink into the corners of

the room, floating you away to

another world."

She sighed and erased it, letting the

world's thoughts creep up behind

her and make her feel as if she is

good for absolutely nothing. But then

again, who in the world is worth

so much?

We are all part of a time in history

where nothing so valuable exists but

the stars. Just imagine, centuries from

now, maybe some aliens or developed

humans will look back and say, "Maybe

nothing existed this year."

All because we are too afraid to say

the truth, too afraid to speak up about the

horrid nightmares and the beautiful

murals we paint in our sleep.

This world is too quiet.

so quiet, that the words

only know how to scream.