Who are you? I didn't paint you, yet the brush is in my hand. I couldn't warn you, and now it's too late.
The doctor scribbled away on his clipboard: anxiety, mental health unstable, irritable, illogical, blah blah blah... Prescription: placebo.
The painting is splattered in deep colours—black, red, grey—that appear to struggle fruitlessly against the stark white canvas.
The phone on the other end rings unceasingly, yet no one answers, and eventually the ringing stops.
The phone rings incessantly, but the chains and lock hold firm, and the phone rings on into the night.
The room used to be so inviting, and I understand why now; it is because you were there.
The piano stands alone, silent in the glass room, and yet I can hear its voice.