536.

There is a soundtrack,
somewhere, to suit each second
of this existence.

535.

The reflection from
this face staring back at me
somehow confuses.

534.

Small owl faces, their
eyes tilted in a haunting
complicity. Hung.

533.

There are moment's of
certainty that each blink holds
ghosts within its sight.

532.

She drew herself up,
dead of night and sleeping, brain
compelled from slumber.

531.

The dust kisses the
window corners and drapes the
room, a disused shroud.

530.

Intoxicated
on what damage this sober
reality makes.