What can you say when you have nothing left to say, and it feels like every word has already been said before you knew how to word it?

And the words you might say feel as though they’ve been said better by those long dead years and years ago perished.

And any utterance of feigned importance is just a dead echo in a cacophony of seagulls on the shoreline.

And maybe there, where the ocean crashes on the shore or where the river rounds over the stones, there might be some whisper of something that people are waiting to hear, but even if you could pull it from the noisiness of all things, who then would listen to it?

For the seagulls though loud are something to hear, and most won’t listen long enough to hear more than their calling, nor more than the splashing of the ocean, nor more than the flowing of the river.