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Through an open window, the sounds of the revelers drift hauntingly over the cold statue garden outside.
Would it be a crime if I should bind the hands of time? I'd halt the creaking clock and force its ticking cogs and gears to stop. Crack the mirror maze, invert the gaze, and with the shards of our days, carve the beauty all around us in our sagging skin. If it were up to me, I'd build a grand museum to house our humble histories. Hobbling down its halls, we'd marvel at the memories that play upon its walls. Cast the vast impressions of our sensory successes in an abstract mold to hold within our skeletons as we grow old. In my reverie, I built a grand museum to house our fleeting fantasies. Marching down its halls, we'll marvel at the lovely times that hang upon its walls.