Alison Wells Author

Silence has a texture, a soft gauze landing on the surface of things like a dust sheet. In its fabric is the interweave of the invisible waves, light, heat, radio that are travelling through and there are pinpricks of the barely audible, the leap of a solar flare, the fizzle of a star, the gurgle of core bound lava. Silence seems to travel, to move faster than the speed of light over some eternal meadow where we lie, unruffled, sinking into the evidence of everything.