The silence is deafening.

The doors have to be kept shut. The wind is blowing outside, one can see the trees sway. But not hear the leaves rustle. Cars pass by, streaks of red and white. You just can't hear them.

The silence rings in the ears. Like a high-pitched squeal. And yet, you know there's nothing.

Eerie. And disconcerting. Music has to be played. Only to cut off that squeal in the ears.

Even in the pin-droppest of silences, we're used to the whirring of the fan. It's only when there's no whirring around does one realise what a source of comfort and familiarity it had become. Isn't that how it is with a lot of things...

I am beginning to detest air-conditioned rooms.

Because they're silent. And the silence is deafening.