(no subject)
The hinges of the door need oiling. They creak open, sounding like violin strings would if they had voices and were being played by someone without any appreciation of their purpose. A sad, forlorn and miserable screeching, a mockery of intent and design.
Dust covers everything, yet it is all as was left. Not a thing out of place. It's as if someone left and was intending to return, but never did.
The light of a fading afternoon dapples the remnants of this place, illuminating the motes of dust dancing lazily in the air, disturbed by the passing of a familiar stranger.
Dust covers everything, yet it is all as was left. Not a thing out of place. It's as if someone left and was intending to return, but never did.
The light of a fading afternoon dapples the remnants of this place, illuminating the motes of dust dancing lazily in the air, disturbed by the passing of a familiar stranger.