If I were to go into business, I would open a shop to sell silence.
Except for a small counter, it would be all shelves, and on the shelves an assortment of silences in quiet but attractive packages.
The basic ingredient would be the same for all; it's the origin, the proportions, processing, and flavour that make the difference.
The silence of the seas is a cool greenish-blue, with all the ship and submarine noises filtered out by a patented process, and only the silent chiming of medusas' bells left undisturbed.
The silence of forests is a quiet green, with the singing of birds left intact because it is a part of the forest silence.
In pure white packages kept under refrigeration: the soft snow-muffled silence of mountain tops and polar regions.
And, on the warmer side, the silence of sleeping children, and of understanding husbands and wives.
There would also be "do it yourself" kits: a bell that doesn't ring; a disconnected car horn; artillery shells without explosives; and anthologies of insults and shouts with pages left uncut.
The customers would come in, smile and nod without speaking, point to the one they want, and put their money on a soft rubber pad which absorbs the clinking.
And it is only the final silence of graves that they would get somewhere else, and free of charge.
©1997 Zygmunt Frankel - All Rights Reserved.
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