The fan softly scanned the room as I sat there, restless. The streets had been painted in the blackness of silence for what felt like millennia. Great, grand visages of kings paced the streets within the ancient cobbles as I listened for them.
Ghosts are fickle things I was told.
A spider scuttled across the room, towards at me? He stopped and examined, and I him. What a thing to be - perceived. The curse of the siren, you may lure the sailor but you must never stop singing. Lest he see your form. Then you drown him. Or drown him first and cut through the whole messy middle of it.
One cannot value what they never had. And other messy idioms half-formed in my mind like new-born stars, racing across the sky and burning into it's canvas. The mind races reality and wins.
The street returned to my view. I felt myself slipping. My heart rolling onto the concrete and down past each car. I watched from the window as it rolled, accelerating down into a grand boulder, the joy of the fall, Sissyphus and Icarus fall into vision, the fallen and the falling. Different, yet the same.
Ghosts are fickle things.
One minute there the next gone. A puff of smoke to be seen on a lonely road. The electric blue of LED's covered the street, the amber long gone from comforting hues.
The reality caught up, and for a second the street was just a street. The room was just a room.
The pile of clothes was mocking me.
Undone, on the floor. No joy of it. Unmade and undone.