Sylvia Plath. Under a glass cover (№ 388623)

The silence oppressed me. It was not the silence of a peaceful silence. It was the silence inside me. I knew that the machines are noisy, and that the people sitting in the cars and the lighted Windows, too noisy, and that the river makes a little noise, but I heard nothing. The city hung in my window, flat as a poster, but he was not actually hanging, despite all the good that he brought me.