The skylight tints the afternoon grey And some dull, dusty oranges Perhaps there's fire, somewhere far away Somewhere far beyond the creaking shelves The time-varnished brown, rusty door hinges
The air is thicker than the oldest tomes Sticky as the darkest aisle Where long-dead spiders once made their homes Minds caught in paper, minds caught in webs I think, if I think, I'll sleep for awhile
Without past, without intervention, it is spectating. Memories are few, present is new, none can see, and none can hear, the role of a spectator. To see yet not do, to hear yet not say, spectator are lonely beings.
Sleeps... A single step feels like thousand leaps. The people are near, yet sounds are not here. Fear is near, but people are nowhere here. Alone, the fear is severe, with no one here, how can I cheer?