What is it that, in such a unstoppable way, the man of our time chases? Why does he run? What is he after that he craves so much? What does he buy so much? Noise. The man needs it, he buys it and he manufactures it, because we're afraid of silence in an underlying way, but the hysteria that drives our lust for the noise we lack is unnerving, it's a mute unsteadiness, a chaotic wing flapping, frantic and nauseating, and completely voiceless under the ordinary tarnish of it all, null for being just a reflex of the masses (a quality of the sheep-like, this null.)
Will you stay in silence in your bedroom? Will you take off the headphones to listen around? Or take a walk just to hear your own thoughts? Will you eat in silence your dinner? And let the ghosts sit and talk to you?
Will you read something that forces you to stop to let it sink? And let them crumble all you thought was true?
No, perhaps you rather some noise.
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