Ripped up, little pieces of paper.
The baritone hints of doubt on a voice.
Redundant pens lining the shelf.
Accumulated dust, hair, dirt.
Faint scents from long ago burnt incense.
Paper and ink.
Machinery gone silent in contempt.
Hollow sounds of footsteps from the hallway.
A wooden chair being drug across a kitchen floor.
Chimes, bitter tinkling like an old music box.
Distant atonal whistling, creaking foundations.
Glass bulbs swinging ever so slightly.
Bare filaments, jagged lines burnt into retinas.
Softness within a blanket.
Feeling the weight of gravity.
Letting bones stretch, muscles twitching.
Eyes racing and alive beneath their lids.
Heartbeats.
Touch.
The color yellow.