Flowers.

I forgot the sound of the grandfather clock, the way it mesmerizes in small doses. The doctor came in today to check on Bradley Shaw, who broke his hip in two places; his mind revels at the flower that was stuck between two pages, the sadness imbedded in the dark. The sound of her voice is the only thing that will soothe him; the sound of madness fills his soul. It is a sickness, a journey of words that flits through the midnight air and drops down on peppermint oceans; a sickness that has no words or sound or color, an odorless gas that is forgotten in waves-sounds are outside of sounds; light flashes in a bit of color, a hatred that is putrid and moves like steel and flame. Someone forget me; please forget who I am; please forget I ever existed. A ghost calls to me from the depth of the dark, it is me, who I have become. The sunlight falls in through the window; makes gold bars on the floor of the cold room. The woman makes Kool-Aid for the old man. And brings it to him in a paper cup. The sound of flowers fills the room. And lights the world with its gloom.