The silence hung.
It hung thick. It hung heavy. It choked and gripped and clutched. Even the delicate tinkeling of the wind cheimes could not lighten the weight.
The wind chimes danced out side the window. The wind blew through them, quiet in and of itself, but playing them with well trained fingers. The tune was indescernible, a mess of half played notes to the untrained ear, but beautiful in its madness.
Chaos was the light that filtered in, golden and bright, drunken on the afternoon. Through the leaves it filtered, gleaming, gleaming, winking playfully and helplessly. A spotlight on the center of the empty room. On the messy papers, on the old wooden chair, antique, old but not forgotten.
Not forgottehn, like the clock on the wall, ticking away, chiping at the seconds to the sound of natures melody. Orderly. Disorderly.
Tick tick tick.
The tinkeling of the chimes grew louder, the sunlight spun and spun and spun.
Spinnig from a rope, madingly, madingly.
Feet hanging helplessly.
Disorderly rope. Around and around.
Eyes open to chaos no more. No more.