I hear you, pleasant voices. Fainting sounds, featherlight hums, a music that is sheer silence in a beautiful wrapping. Never before, has a mere nothingness been so audible.
When I close my eyes I see portraits, lovely as a pretty woman, innocent as a kid, pure as their smile and looks in their eyes. Clear as if golden-framed, hung on the wall before me.
Pleasant voices. Twelve minutes after the clock strikes twelve. Such is the beauty, so needless I am to see. Or rather, so unwilling I am to see.