Ever look down the stairs and wonder why the world below looks like you forgot to turn off the kaleidoscope? There’s this assortment of colors swirling, and you think, "Tomorrow, I’ll clean this mess." But tomorrow never sends a note.
Voices echo, or maybe it's just the wind remembering it has stories to tell. I asked the last step if it was finished, and it replied in a language I could barely paraphrase. Something about a ticket that never was, or else a dream buzzing in place.