There are terrible stories of human suffering to tell. Their importance gets scattered to the wind.
Roadkill.Their wings grow moldy as they die, scattered across the road in the damp dark distant night.
Wolves hungrily cry for their starved and rib battered bellies. There was something to be said for the melodies that played behind their ears. Karioke love songs, old, worn, broken in and sang through lavender plated vocal chords.
One walked alone through this environment of despair and wretchedness. One foot came after the other however there was no will to do so. It came from a mechanical and habitual reserve. The well was deep but the water shallow. It took long fingers to climb out. And to those who were not born with them the climb was vividly painful, and for many, impossible. One watched from the mouth of the well, saw thousands climbing, stern faces and desperate faces, pushing and pulling, some voluntarily jumped, this was too much, some simply let go.
The clocks ticked in their ears, some whispered, "Biology wind tunnels, forget, forgive, peace, perfect nature, allow, alloss, aloe out the window, please, prying, flying, progressively dying and done and dinner, cold, forget me nots."
A couple of books fell from the shelves, they made a loud scream on their way down, suffering screams from the tectonics of hell. Plates shifted, the books confronted the soft carpet but the cushion was not enough to save them, their heads splattered all over the floor as children ran through the columns of shelves. Sticky book brain goo stuck to the childrens shoes and they paint by shoe soul scattered on the floor. This was a path for all to follow.