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There’s little flecks of gold that cascade down in tiny paths through the narrow channel of glass. Time falling away, but the sand is not piling up into a small golden mountain, but trickling away in little paths and rivulets. There’s a hole in the bottom, where the glass had fractured, cracked and shattered. Small threads of golden sand, spreading out over the plains of dust. The dust hangs thick upon the air, lethargic, suffocating, disallowing for movement. The broom of order has long been banished, each day it was neglected, the more the cobwebs gathered upon it, till it became impossible to disentangle and ceased to be functional to sweep clean this clutter of the mind. Order now imprisoned, time cracked and attacked, now filters away… What will remain when the sand is blown away or lost under the shavings of the termites efforts to destroy the little that is left. They are all that seems to move, the termites slowly nibbling away at the now thin walls, the outside air flows through in draughts, occasionally stirring the cobwebs, shifting the paths of time, yet doing very little to stir anything else. Everything else is comprised of stone, solidified from inactivity, solidified from determination, from shielding away from the outside, only to be destroyed nonetheless by the inside. A blanket of feathers once lurked over the stoney structures, but that no longer remains, it was blown away by the cold haughty draughts. So little remains, but a heavy dragging weight, a burden that seems to ache every now and again at the termites nibblings, at the occasionally open wounds, or at orders strangled form. Something still remains, yet it is no longer of concern that it might one day fall into dust and cease to be, and then perhaps the termites shall be free, and time will mean nothing more to the fragile walls.
