Pardon? It’s all a dream nothing tangible. Faded and pale, smudged edges, smoked lines. Coloured pinpricks like chalk pastel dusting sparkle through the fog making the haze more haze by its very difference. Like before when the world stopped turning. Back then, though, it fired up once more. Will it do the same? Will history echo the future? I cannot say and merely wait to catch it.
(This made perfect sense last night when it wrote itself)