The young man that lisens

He wakes up and he listens, there is silence. The treetops swing slowly, the raindrops fall in tiles, the birds fly and sing. He can imagine the blue sky and the clouds like candy floss. 

There is silence. 

There is silence.

He is silence.

He can listen because when the silence is the live, there is time for listening. He closes his eyes and he tries to save the sounds and the dreams.

There is silence. There are broken glasses in the floor, and in them, the sky is reflecting. There is blood and screams everywhere. There is a voice. It is a horrible voice. It is cheerful and funny, and it tells funny stories about kills, numbers and statics. Everyone hears it in the morning every day.

There is silence. He is hiding. He tries to hide himself. But silence is a while background curtain on which float many words: Success, achievement, destination… He can’t run away it. He can’t understand it. He is a little boy and he only can listen.

He can close his eyes, not to see, but he can’t close his ears.