I once heard a story. A story of these ticky tacky creatures who like to plod on around inside people’s head. They often like to dance a prance that spark cobblestones underneath their cotton hooves. Free to fly they move with frantic beats to the cadenced sound erupting in an infinity near to this day.
Come Dancer, come Vixen their thousand hushed whispers began to cry. For there, beyond the rise of draped dreams sits a man hollow in the empty shell of his chest. There he waits for the clocks to strike their boom while unstirred beams discharge him from his creatures final dreams.