Frank's head hurts. »The silence, the silence, the silence.« He says this to himself over and over, as if the word could rush into the void signified by the thing, and fill it.
Did you get that? I've been going on and on here, for years, talking about words and things, through the media of my beloveds: Frank, Vidalia, Blossom, Piccadilly. Because while I can conjure words from things, I can't reverse the causal arrows, and conjure things from words. Or silence, either. No magic, no magician.
I adore that phrase, »Silence shattering shite.«