sjsprWriting

He dreams one of those memory-dreams. Remembers standing high up at the top of an old playground of chipped paint and rusted metal. (Something infinitely sad about the music there. Wistful. Ghosts of wispy dreams and wispy hopes. Lost. Lonely.) Remembers the sky was faded like worn denim and the air was muted. Lights shown bright, and he was not scared at all because the light was always comforting. With a piercing scream, he felt the floor around his feet give out, until he was standing alone in the precipice of (in)sanity, feeling the only thing that has ever made him afraid wrap around his ankles and wrists.

At first he heard a medley of whispers, all blending far too much to distinguish one from the other. Until—

“Fall with me.”