That hideaway dwelt in its memories’ wreck about its past, its future. How shall it find itself among the remnants of the ancient dust whether the apex of time hasn’t notched the curtain of its reeking scene? To land an ear to the whispering of the years scattered through the feeble sparks that get tangled through universe is just a profane fancy, stillborn in the belly of procreation.

Above the delirium of human kind lay the hectic tranquility, that hush that breathed with pestilential calm upon men’s heads. There were no whoops to whittle the garland of stillness, nor whimpers to flash up the gloomy mirror of the earthly concern.

It was merely the unruffled tissue of contemplative cerebration…