Saucepan.

I am in this place. I am in this place where there is no noise. There is no noise, no noise, there is only snow and tree-shapes looming out of the mist-clouds which I know are hiding this mountain from the eyes of the city. I am alone in this silent ghost-tree no-eyes-watching-me frozen place. I am alone in this place, and no one outside this place can even see it. I am alone in this place of mist-walls and snow. I am alone in this place and tree-shapes are towering over me and threatening to fall. I am alone in this place and there is no noise. You might think you have heard silence. I did too, but then I came to this place and learned what silence was. There is no noise, no noise, not my ears ringing or a bird singing, there is nothing. There is me, there is the mist, there is the snow, and there are the tree-shapes. The tree-shapes that stand, or lean against one another; dying giants. I am in this place and the snow is flawlessly white and smooth. I am in this place and I scream, I shatter the silence's frail panes. I scream as loud and long as I can, and it is me taking a blank paper and violently smashing ink on it, it is me screaming alone on a mountain in the snow and the mist, because I know when I scream here there is no noise that could be heard instead. There is only me. I am the only noise. I own the air, I own the mountain's ears. I am alone in this place, I stop screaming, there is no noise, the wind is blowing the mist away and I wish I could float along with it.