Locking a person up in a closet, locks silence within silence. The dark begins to prick skin, it insipidly tests one to withstand earsplitting tranquility. At first, the black void would startle and shake a person, but soon enough the only presence strong enough to stifle the senses becomes noise. Noise of footsteps gently tapping or creaks and cracks of the old building swaying in the breeze outside. Though when the din ceases and quaint silence absorbs, noise somehow still seems to be heard. Unknown sounds that do not truly exist gather until deafening static remains the only remnant. Conversely, all that erodes against the mind is all that wishes to stay lucky, like the first fold of tissue lining up exactly without any rumples. Only the foolish believe in this luck, the rest of us dance solemnly around its hopeful questioned existence, pondering when such fortune may strike.