There’s something special about them. I can’t exactly quantify it easily. They speak to me in their lack of sound.

At first, it was the peaceful moments of the woods. I’d hike out and sit among the trees, absorbing it — the stillness. I liked empty beaches too, on those days when no one was around and the waves lapped breathlessly on the shore. I preferred lakes over the ocean, though the ocean had its moments.

It wasn’t until my surprise party at work that I discovered my love for the silence created by people. The unspoken anticipation, the tension that electrified the air — it was thrilling. That moment, too, when the referee tossed the basketball up, and for a split second no one dared breathe as it stopped midair, floating weightlessly. So brief that it lasted less than a heartbeat. And the crowd.

I accidentally discovered my favorite when the neighbor fell off his ladder while cleaning the gutters. It wasn’t a far fall, but they said the angle at which he impacted caused a rib to break and his lung to puncture — and, well, he choked on his own blood. I held his hand as his eyes glossed over and his grip released from mine. A final gurgle and splatter of blood climaxed into—into… peace.

I wanted to experience it again. Not naturally; it wasn’t the same when it was expected. I knew that when I sat by my grandfather’s bedside — I felt no thrill. These silences were magnificent, but fleeting. I tried chasing ambulances, but the work was too much to keep up with, and first responders always shooed me away.

So I became an artist. I began manufacturing them. They weren’t perfect at first, but when I kept at it, I perfected it. I became God, creating from nothing…

And when the world finally goes quiet enough, I think I’ll rest too.