Silent is lying embedded with a newspaper nearby reading neighbor’s eyes. Silent is a teacup nearby with hands in the mound, a slurp unheard to mouth, to dregs of continent maps.
Silent is Beckett awaiting in mound our non-arrival. (We are no words but times) .Silent is touching a heart ,a hand on a chest ticking below a mound, our times.
(Remembering Samuel Beckett’s “absurd” play “Happy Days”)