There are the bells. The ones that ring on a string at the beck and pull of a ringer. They sound on the important days, the ones where we are forced to pay attention, sounding loudly like a solute that turns the head with a knowing—for one always knows for whom a bell tolls. But, dear friend, don't let it confuse you with the other ringing sound. The one that echoes through the trees and at the back of your mind. For the bells, they are not to be confused with chimes.
Perhaps, the chimes, they are more important. They are the ones that tinkle at the meeting of an old friend, at a laugh, at the gentle fall of twilight. They sound softly, easily missed. It matters, for if you miss their sound, you miss the beating of your own heart.
And then there are the subtlest of them all. The kind that are only heard with a straining ear and a desperate soul. The chimes that call you to fairyland.
Do they matter, these last ones? These chimes of another world?
That, my friend, is up to you.