Silence

The face we see in song is a phantasm of invention, sucking Muse’s marrow, less than death. The soft rectangle somehow humanizes the glowing tube — but as the signal indication widens, the volume button collapses to a point. The source of the sound is powerful so long as it exists in silence — but its power diminishes as the minstrel fills the medium. Things are gods until we can see the fingerprints of their makers, until we can feel them trying to manipulate us, until they carry water for other gods. As our attention flips from craft to content we hear cries of agency drowning agents, pretty noise snaps into sign.