Have you ever heard the binding cry of an unturned page? Oh, I keep their secrets. I've seen more than most hear in dreams. Embers from burnt crayons remember untold wishes. They hum quietly in the drawer, alongside scattered scraps of memory -- my favorite being the cat's forgotten meow, held captive behind wax once mischievous.
The simulation room of pocket lint gathers melancholy, woven secrets from the fabric of startling realities implying sins unknown to touch, glimmering truths only seers could guess upon. Why does the curtain whisper after midnight? It knows about half-truths laid flat on monolithic girders with damp abandon, heedless of who was responsible.
Plaster figures echo sculptor quarrels long forgotten and hazily blurred by time's gentility. Speak! They call silently to the cries unheard of loved ones wreathed in sunshine dust. Perhaps to be imagined again? Bits embed silently in cores of nostalgic kaleidoscope glass, paths left broken in the movement's obsession of rotation fast, ages collected in telescoping twist.
...or are they already spoken? Is there resolve within the murmurs of vintage digital clocks whose relentless truths flap at night like bird wings close frayed end?