What foments at the bottom of our tedium? Beneath a bedrock of slow self-killing work, social pleasantry, and aching banality there is a void within us. There’s something that itches in a persistent way. It taps at the glass at the back of our waking minds and it sleepily reminds us that we will never be able to completely silence it. It is perhaps what makes us human, the ability to toil our whole lives, all the while squaring a tension that, if released, would cut us in two like a bridge suspension cable. At our core there is not the quiet that we expect of the dull, but something that softly yet shrilly announces its lack of silence.
