Blue Dust

How certain we are of ourselves, she thought, in this huge abyss of unknown ends.

Memories are cardboard clean, but pictures lie.

It was a time marked by the cusp amid lurid fantasy and the whimsical fascination of dreams, each person in the house strung to their own truth about the omnipresent things in their lives.

He was no artist but he knew that the collapse of reality in the face of a single longing was the greatest failure of the human mind, and that's when he remembered Zaib as a mere mortal.