There was no voice, it was a soft, floating scent. Hung mid-air, a pink coloured breeze, the fragrance spoke. A whimsical-tinted melody.

And it felt like sleep, only that it snared you in its embrace, opaque ribbons dug into your nose, and its slimy warmth pricked your eyes. Blood dripped down your ears, like veins noosed around your throat. But it was a balm fragrant, of nostalgic, dusty times, and so you stayed, still, silent, sweet. Your bones ached, and your skin crippled, you could have writhed in pain. You did not. Because it felt like sleep, and quicksand comfort would only work if you stopped moving.

So you gave in, gave up, gave out. And that was your only fault. Because of the pink, rose, coral, sweet flavoured, cotton stuffed wisp, that smells sanctuary, there's something so thin and fleeting, so patched up, and wilting. If only you'd moved, you would know that the heavy fragrance; distant deadwood made redolent, was so light, you could blow it away; and all would be gone, and you would stand again.

But you did not, and so it lives on, preying on dreams. And it's a tale of fear, and of anxiety; poisonous wisps, toxic, toxic microbes flowering inside your colourless brain, and your colourless heart.

Deep, deep down, when you finally fall, and touch a surface, you'll know, all this time you, comatose and submissive, were being blithe, spineless only to a thin layer of translucent chorus, that sang but this; fool, fool, fool. That relied but on your broken record; to want, to do, to know, the same things over and over again.

You perseverate fool, you should have changed, should have moved.

There was no voice, it was a soft, floating scent. Hung mid-air, a pink coloured breeze, the fragrance spoke. A whimsical-tinted melody.