The roll of marble across a table top sets an echo in this silent room.
It starts as a growling sound, a rumble and it grows.
It becomes a dull roar like a storm on the horizon.
It grows ever more intricate and beautiful, it is a symphony.
All instruments in a grand hall weaving this tapestry of song.
The composer is of no importance and is entirely unknown.
It rumbles in my chest and my mind swells, impregnated with music.
A piercing crash,
the music is at a halt, and the grand hall is gone.
Tiny shards of glass on a cold wood floor are all that remain.
A small tear falls with such a weight.
A wave floods the room.
There is no room, there is no marble,
only a bed of seamless water, a molten glass case.