Unheed

Your pupils are dilating, watching the paint drip. You expect the cold snaking through the windowpanes to freeze the drips, but they continue meandering down the wall in front of you. Wandering away from your time zone left you feeling disoriented but somehow it doesn't seem to matter anymore. Ochre is sliding down the walls, one arm at a time. Along with it crimson, prussian blue. You're not sure what you did with your limbs.

The paint crawls into your eyes.