Old unstoppable ears, all you know is a complaining rigmarole of words, bereft of ageing.
You let them float in your ageless stream night and day until they dissolve into one another, like drops of rainwater, running towards one another, on a misty windowpane.
On the windowpane, union is dissolution.
Old unstoppable ears, one of these days or nights, you should finally close your inexistent lids and listen to your own inner sibilance.
When time leaves your hollow, all hearing becomes resonance.
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