I walked past a hole the other day. Inside little men in overalls and train conductor hats ran around and swung on the pipes left exposed by whatever had created the small crater. I saw steam rise in great puffs from cracks in the pipelines. Puffs that lifted my hair off my neck and brought sweat to my brow.

My eyes teared.

They had no use for the sky, these little men with the covered heads. The high walls of the hole were covered in mossy green vegetation in which vibrant dots of red and yellow were apparent. One must suppose this provided the little people sustenance.

There was silence in the hole, though activity was rampart. These phantom workers of no purpose had no need for noise.

A stagnant society makes no noise, the antithesis being...