Yesterdays Cracks.

On the subject of surface noise; the dripping of water or the distant tap of shoe on solid oak floor; a chamber of dancing dust motes in ballroom elegance, waltzing in an imaginary moonlight or distantly remembered sequin illumination. At times one can imagine the clicks and rasps to be the slow opening of a colossal mouth, saliva stretching and breaking as the maw works itself upon the game it dreams of in gentle sleep. Our pages fill with the unwritten vacuum in which illusion and story spores like a virus; unseen yet so tangible as to affect the health of those individuals within radius. A leeward wind renders the pallid skin wildly cold yet the listener cannot breaks its engagement to the ethereality of the imperfections of the waxen surface, hefted with years of aggregates and thumb prints, a score of life composed by time itself and given personality by the listeners fancy.