The dregs of a hammock shook, a precarious pile of rusted utensils fell cascading, unwarranted, into a tumultuous dis chord. The trees shook and the raft boarded at the verge of the thunderous shore- rattled. Just another tremulous murmur. Another tremor. Repulsive of its inhabitant’s deeds.
And then followed a long episode of blackening silence. Like a hollow casket or the labyrinth of one’s ear. Lost in its own magnanimity. Piercing, penetrating silence like a thorn latched in an ebony skin.
It was as if this peninsula had all the hope of music famished like its deserters. Nothing but a nest of lies and broken dreams. – Plath's Kin