Do you remember the sound of moonlight, caressing the floor boards, whispering secrets only dust could understand?

In the corner, an unmade bed weeps stories to imaginary listeners — their ears shaped like forgotten words, echoing in silent rooms.

The next step trails off, shrouded in a mist of vibrational afterthoughts.

Laughter is the chime of a clock in another time zone. Sometimes, though, the clock ticks backward.

Retrieve the hour swept into oblivion, the glow yet slightly cold.