The Chatterers, Harry Wilson Watrous 1913

As light scatters, we may dwell in depth, catch the moment before all is absorbed. Take the green, plucked from a wing, whilst we mourn ourselves, eye to eye. Perceived silence, yet chattering is ever present. Every echo occupies the space; rooms spin as we share everything that ever mattered. I take from you, whilst you give to me, to return twofold. What if this is the final time I'm understood? I may live and die at the edge of this room, bathed in exactly the right light— plummet yet be seen, or captured by the need to perpetually know exactly this, amidst the silence and serenity. Though we may circle round, if I leave, I risk never knowing another moment like it.