“A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.”
— Robert Frost
I love your silences, they are like mine. You are the only being before whom I am not distressed by my own silences. You have a vehement silence, one feels it is charged with essences, it is a strangely alive silence, like a trap open over a well, from which one can hear the secret murmur of the earth itself.
(с) Anais Nin “Under a Glass Bell”