Sometimes, on Sunday afternoons, it gets so quiet in here the only thing that can be heard is the fizz and pop of the bubbles in the Diet Coke and the ceiling fan. That’s only until the Diet Coke goes flat, then it’s just the ceiling fan and the blood pulsing though my fingers.
It’s awfully quiet here on Sundays.
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Personally, i LOVE that kind of silence. Rare and precious in a crazy world. I think i must’ve been a recluse in my last life.
Sometimes I like it, and sometimes it drives me nuts. It all depends on what side of the continental psychotic divide the silence falls.