THE ROOM
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Within the silent chambers of solitude, the poet unveils a realm stripped bare of material possessions. The room echoes with emptiness, devoid of tangible treasures, yet resounds with the symphony of profound thoughts. The poet, having weathered loss and deprivation, finds solace in the richness of his own mind. Each echo of contemplation becomes a treasure, and every fleeting idea a priceless gem. In this barren sanctuary, the poet discovers that true happiness lies not in external abundance but in the infinite wealth of his own musings, weaving a tapestry of contentment from the threads of thought.
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We knew something wasn't right from the moment we awoke. It was like something was missing - a part of our very souls - and we couldn't sense the deficiency, no matter how hard we tried. A hundred million eyes adjusted to the dark all at once, all surprised to be awakened so soon. We ran through our checklists of limbs and senses, drawing ourselves out of our dreams piece by piece. Some went back to sleep, unaware, unbothered, too tired to notice the difference. Some lay in bed, too anxious to stand until the light of dawn crept through their windows at last, and they were sure the monsters in their closets had gone back to sleep. Some leapt from their slumbers, more keenly aware than others that the missing pieces were important. But we didn't know. We couldn't have. Not until we found ourselves standing in the light and discovered: We no longer had shadows.
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