The sound of silence is a ticking clock. You know the necessity for the space around you has been deleted when you hear the silence of the ticking clock. The lights go out, TV off and the room is useless. It must be bedtime.
The silence of the ticking clock does not beat its drum only where a clock is present. If it does, then the clock must hang inside my head for that is where I forever hear the drums play, to no specific melody except that of chaos. It plays a daunting tune of trembling tambourines yelling at the symbols being bashed by the tone-deaf Maestro. The Maestro waves his wand around erratically, emphatically with a smile on his ghastly triangle shaped face. The wand strikes his triangle head creating a bell like noise that makes my eyes open up to the darkness of the room.
I guess I’m not tired?