Graveyard of whispers

The day is drowning in the horizon while I roam dark, carpeted alleyways in this abandoned building. Theories and stories, words piled upon eachother, entire towers of Knowledge majestically rising . (Physical, metaphorical, what are interpretations anyway?) The silence here doesn't affect me, there's chanting and elusive hymns winding their way to my heart. Like snowflakes melting at their first touch with the ground. Like your laughter three seats behind me, like a comforting rumble of froth-laced seawaves. Liquor in the library results in whispering poems back to their authors. What is a library more than a graveyard of whispers? I soon find my fingertips capped in dust from brushing broken spines. A fountain pain swirls across the paper. My personal garden spade, a tool to bury this knowledge underneath my scalp.

(Goodbye! Au revoir! Happy new year! I'm retreating into social hibernation - atleast until exams are over.)

ps; listen to this Obsessions (cover Marina) by Roselien

ph: Kasia truss by Hugh Lippe in 'Prelude to winter', via