Listening to the ticking sound of an old clock, resting on a table now empty, wondering on thy past. Sensing the smell of a pie who’s creator rests within the world of dreams. Beside me on this table, carved with with a knife called time, rests a bunch of apples, as small as a bunch of wild berries, which in Maltese we call a “Merh”.

The window, wide open letting the cool breeze inside, helping my pencil through its scribbling symphony, wondering what else to draw, wishing no end for this timeless moment.

A house as quite as a school library, as experienced as an old sailor, noiseless but abundant in memories and thoughts, as if it were the gondolier who’s romantic stories never end, expanding through the canals of Venice and off through the Mediterranean.

And the clock ticks, for I can only hear the breeze passing through the vented openings, the pencil enjoying virgin paper, my heartbeat, my thoughts, nothing else.

Silence

Even the sun remembers those exhausted candles that shed no light no more. For I looked into a bottle, to find an ocean but not what I expected, I found.