Quiet is a language.

The quiet has its murmurs, its hummings, its faint bird calls.

The quiet can be its own orchestra.

Quiet speaks of its own nature.

Without quiet, happiness fights for attention.

Quiet lets the leaves drop but doesn't let them get raked.

Quiet nerves feel nothing and escape the doctor's probe.

I may not hear anything in the quiet, but usually hear everything.

The quiet curves of a heavenly guest visiting my repose, hidden from the outside door.

I'm quiet, as a practice of listening to the shyness of my inner mind.

My reservation to its chamber requests the stamp of "quiet" on my ticket.

Quiet doesn't tell you its here.

Instead, quiet starts talking, as it can finally be heard for the first time.

Quiet seems to enjoy the loneliness you share with it.

The quiet world fancies nothing, but dresses so ornately.

Quiet commoditizes God, yet hangs no pricetag.

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