the drops on the window whisper to me in raspy tunes. reminding me not of anything that i have heard before while containing remnants of every piece ever composed. their distinctly indistinct melodies transcend the barrier of my skull, planting their seeds in my brain. they come in waves, rays and radio signals, each scrambling to become what my soul has assumed them to be. i am more engrained in these sounds, which rarely waver, than that which is warm and moving. 6:31 and it’s red and black. is this all the light the ether has to offer? mechanical digital clocks and plastic glass window panes compose the fabric of the world that has been created within the solar system of my darkness. fragments of time and space or space and time? only the solid wood desk chair knows which came first. it’s dying to be that paper on the wall, flat, flimsy and unthinking. who knows the horrors that its aura can create as it screams to be released, emancipated from its stark white jail. how terribly terrifying it must be, to never be quite convinced of their iridescent ideas of existence.