In the crevices of forgotten hallways, I found your name—spelled in fading crimson, dripping shadows beside it.
Beneath the cracked clock that ticks only in Tuesday's whispers, the chairs held council. "Is it tea we consume," queried the candle, dribbling thoughts in waxy syntax, "or are we the consumed in a play of existential sips?"
The raven's eye watched the ephemeral dance of the misnamed nothing, as socks parted from their consorts to concede to destiny's indifferent washing machine.
Follow the Shadows