In the distance, there is a faint beeping, a constant tick of a machine, the heartbeat regular but weakening. The corridor sterile, that specific linoleum floor which should squeak but when you walk all sound is sucked away; this dream has solidity to it, underneath the clinical smell is the musty odour of a freshly dug grave. The earth, with its damp promises, is faintly repeating your name here. Calling you, guiding you past so many empty rooms. In some of them, strange dresses are lain out on the bed; there's that 80s pink one, with the funny short sleeves and the promise of innocence. She wore that a lot. In another room, light, soft underdresses that were never long enough to cover her curves. Overpowering, musky, deep: the smell of all her perfume flows from these rooms. The warm smell of her flesh ; the eternal desire which always burned for you. A locked room and you touch the handle but the heat is so great you stumble back. Too familiar, the faint roar behind. You'd run, but you entered this maze willingly and now you must finish the circuit. Somewhere, there's a centre; the whoosh and ticking of machines keeping someone alive, even if just for now. So you get up, you try to move along. Before you, the open lounge, stark darkness hits suddenly; flashing lights and glitter. Music played then silence; a soft song starting somewhere in the middle of it all, untrained mostly but the vibrato starts filling the entire room. You can finally tread lighter here, you can pick up the pace. Following the voice as it turns and twists further through the corridor, endlessly. Rooms full of laughter, rooms full of life; when you look you can see it from the corner of your eye, and then it fades.
The faint beeping closer now, so, so many machines. In the corridor, against the roof, spilling all over the floor. All these support systems, droning ahead in symphony. The vibrato reaches its peak, falls, breaks completely. The door is slightly open but jammed, you put your hands on it; as icy cold as a still winter night underneath her mountain, the pine trees looming ever. Within, even more machines, everywhere. Cluttering this place, ticking in unison. A crescendo of desperation, hope breaking on the passing of the years. There she lies in a lonely bed, all tucked in is sleeping beauty; her pale skin translucent now. The blanket barely covering her, as always, the bare chest betraying the heart too big for this vessel; holding a tiny bird within, asleep. Everything here is so cold. Her large eyes closed, mostly passive, then sudden movement when caught in a dream. Those lithe, tender lips, slightly parted; still moist. Despite all, her skin is still warm to the touch. She's whispering, whispering your name.