. . .Our whispered words, faintly in the darkness, dissolvingwithin the trees—then, fleeting words of consolationwould not suffice if feigned, and flippant wordsconfessed reluctance—our wordswere meaningless uttered on the wind. . .

All the whispering, glaring, pointing and judging makes them no better than whoever or whatever it is they're gossiping about.

I pull back, gasping for breath. Reeling. His breath is ragged, and I place my hands on his cheeks to steady him. 'Is this okay?' I whisper. 'Are you okay?'His reply is anguished. Honest. 'I love you.

There is another alphabet, whispering from every leaf, singing from every river, shimmering from every sky.

In the wind that ruffles through the treesI can find thoughts of you whispering to me.

A stream of primal voicesWhispering in the breeze of your heartTo urge you on.

Hemingway is overrated,Twain is even more lost at sea,And all truths point to the mouth of a woman,Where both her whispers and her screams,Are born.Pour another glass, Beer, wine, whiskey,I don't care,So long as its wisdom is sharp,And it tells lies instead of promises.

Darkness watches me from every angle. My only friend. From its own place within the silence, it speaks to me in a strange way. It whispers secrets in my ear, telling me this is where I’m meant to be. It’s so certain, not a trace of doubt. And I think . . . I think it may be right.

I rest in ease, knowing there are others out there, whispering themselves to sleep, just like me.

The house, and all the objects in it, crackled with static electricity; undertows washed through it, the air was heavy with things that were known but not spoken. Like a hollow log, a drum, a church, it was amplified, so that conversations whispered in it sixty years ago can be half-heard today.