Every morning, I wake to tunes no one else seems to hear. They linger like grease on a diner tabletop—ghost notes, high and plaintive.
Strangers walk past in mirrored silence. I catch glimpses of familiar faces and waves that never happened. The world is a record scratched, endlessly looping.
Somewhere, someone is still playing those lost chords. I imagine them in a sun-drenched attic, under blankets of dust and time.
People say the universe is infinite, but sometimes I think it runs out of minor keys and ghostly harmonies. That's when the silence stretches the loudest.