A school of books swims by. Languid and ponderous. Leisurely in their familiarity. My gaze does not frighten them. I am a harmless predator from an unrelated chain.

In a further hall there is music, but music is sleeping. On tip toes I wonder if it dreams like I do. Wonder if it dreams of me.
I never dream of music.

While passing the black bag that is the gift shop, I pause for a cigarette. It's late and the lobby is empty. No fussing cats. No trumpeting children seeking their lost parents. The guard is here, but without a mirror he cannot scold my indiscretion.

Fire turns to ash and ash turns to dust.

Past halls of sentimental indifference and cherished heartbreak a pantheon roulettes eternal matinee. Violent cars and destructive poetry bluff hands of solitaire. Gods and aliens exchange wisdom and foibles on a moonlit transom.

No point in stopping here. I never really leave. My destination is the same as yesterday. The same as tomorrow. A keyless door that brags of windows. The future hostage in her unseen glove.

And there I stop to look for flowers. Missing pieces of my soul. The colourful screams of blood drenched sunflowers and haunted telephones are all I want now. Maybe they're all I've ever wanted.

They only grow here. Beneath the whisper of her lonely windmill.