The clock ticks but when, oh when, did it start? My feet hover above the ground... or is it sand? I see pale silhouettes cluttered, overlapping, their features blur, the sound of their speech, an echo in a vast expanse, neither here nor there. Whispering echoes...

Beyond the door lies a garden that wasn't, with trees rustling secrets only heard by the brave or foolhardy oscillating between sighs and scattered laughter. Breath in, breath out, it counts the same in all languages, yet this one is unfamiliar. Familiar flavors taste wrong...

Light spills through broken windows, illuminating the dust dancing away from eyes that once saw many things, now sees just the passing. Yet the voice remains—a strain of something untold—etched in walls that breathe stories with each sigh of wind. Untold, yet known fights with certainty...

An invasion of barricaded thoughts troubled by scattered groups of their own reflection: familiar strangers. Objects that whose purpose has grown weary stare blankly back. Each fragment captured in waves of longing unknown, out there in the whispers. They come and they go… Passions locked within riddles...