Don't talk, or walk anymore at my fore.
Such a tired stalk is a bore.
Remember what the lines made with chalk are for.
Not a boundary, but a door.

A sign there declares how the wares truly fare:
"Ever more does the silence dare."

This first, new idea, could not be controlled. Out from the darkness of the hermetically sealed room, the image penetrated as eyes could not. It is not correct to call it the reinvention of the wheel, yet in that forgotten mine the concept was a dish made from scratch. Between it's range of degrees there was a pallette of tinged thoughts that had and had not entered the abused mind. The alternating jewels that encrusted the device shone and obscured as the vehicle of it's construction blinked brilliance in and out of consideration.

Dirty mirrors opposite the subject on the wall, as of yet reflecting hardly anything at all. It has just dawned, both outside and within, that there is something to see there, and outside no matter where.