aimlessly blinking at the sight of my ceiling and a steadily squeaking fan with its last couple breaths to fall into a perpetual slumber
has this gloom room always been so pink i think to myself or has my nonchalance overpowered my ability to feel the melancholic shades of umber?
often conflicting my way to the prismatic times that have long withered away but were once an everlasting trace of mirth and merriment
has this supposedly accustomed trudge to people from past and compassion from crypt been put to sleep or has my unfinished ode no longer the heart to vent?
strolling to a delightful feel-good and cinematic piece of art only to at least reverberate the dead muse in me alive
has this intermittent indulgence in the drama and thriller of frames probably overdone to almost done or has the monochrome greyed out my fantasising ability to the archive?
eventually turning to my old fella often called by the name of music for my selfish solacement and to inspire introspection
has this song struck a chord within me for far too long to remember the feeling of it anymore or has my nerve forgotten to dance to the tunes of subdued retrospection?