Aldous Huxley — They were about being alone by Helmholtz

Yesterday's committee, Sticks, but a broken drum, Midnight in the City, Flutes in a vacuum, Shut lips, sleeping faces, Every stopped machine, The dumb and littered places Where crowds have been: . . . All silences rejoice, Weep (loudly or low), Speak -- but with the voice Of whom, I do not know. Absence, say, of Susan's, Absence of Egeria's, Arms and respective bosoms, Lips and, ah, posteriors, Slowly form a presence; Whose? and, I ask, of what So absurd an essence, That something, which is not, Nevertheless should populate Empty night more solidly Than that with which we copulate, Why should it seem so squalidly?