I open the curtains and a bright light hits my face. I look over to the vanity and the sunlight puts the decayed flowers into full relief. Each crack and crinkle is magnified by 10 times. The bruised purple looks even richer. They almost look alive and radiant in the sunlight. In a million years from now, this light will desist and implode on itself.

There’s the preserved skull of my great-great grandmother on my nightstand. Sometimes she whispers in my dreams faint, cryptic words I can never make out. Words of old world wisdom that only come to be understood in time. Her whispers turn into echoes as they transform the room into a theatre of cosmic drama. What hour is it? The day has only started but the symphony is inching towards it crescendo. The time on the clock is a farce.

I look outside and re-imagine that I’m looking at a garden teaming with life and the libidinal energy of early spring. The artificiality of the city has me imagining artificial landscapes. I dream of virtual life cycles where each sleep is a repetition of the universe recycling itself. In my dreams, I am the mother of universe. I don’t merely witness the repetition, I birth the light that illuminates the decaying flowers. My rays fuse with everything it touches. I reverberate throughout like the whispers that encompass everything.