This may be a misinterpretation but: the wonderful song “Psycho Killer” contains lyrics in which the lunatic —with whom, it should go without saying, I identify— asserts the following:
You start a conversation, you can’t even finish it
You’re talkin’ a lot, but you’re not sayin’ anything
When I have nothing to say, my lips are sealed
Say something once, why say it again?
If these standards were applied, nearly 100% of cultural production would cease at once. I think everyone would be happier, but we’d certainly start talking about it so quickly that the silent moment would be a lost singularity, the instant before the big bang of bloviation which sets in motion a universe of empty and expanding rhetoric.
But I’m a polluter, I don’t care.