Chance, as a crowd, is the permanent cause

 Chance, as a crowd, is the permanent cause. In bustle of events. Silence could be rebuilt. The pierced pupils of the statues. Come inside the marble. Ours within the aquasity. Our bodies. Voice memories. I cling to your voice. I am wood of your absence. It is a stormy river between our bodies. It makes noise dragging the whirlwinds of silence. We wish to enter the time of its waters as in a book whose pages drift alone.

Sense, then ex-isto as a hypo/thesis.