I sit here writing this late at night. The roar of traffic is long gone, but I can hear rain pelting the patio stones out my apartment window, wet tires in the distance. A train whistles its arrival. Closer, the refrigerator hums.
To me, this is quiet. I live in the city, dreaming of what people might hear in the country at night. Rain, surely. Always rain on the West Coast of Canada. Perhaps an owl. Perhaps a refrigerator.
What about 100 years ago?
Do we even know what quiet means anymore?
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