by Lucy Earl

About Sierra Karas

The light that managed to fight its way through the filth on the window was blanketing the room in a soft morning glow; everything smelled of dust, the kind of dust that crept its way into your nose and settled there, threatening a sneeze each time you breathed.  The dust was like the sound of socks on a hardwood floor, you don’t expect it to make a sound, yet it was so subtle that the sound seeps into your brain which is quickly pushed away into the depths of your subconscious and ignored, added to a list of regulars, sounds like grass in the wind or the loud sounds of the city that get duller the more you stay. Can people become subconscious regulars? Can you come to expect their every move? Will people grow dim, muffled by your subconscious expectations? Slowly they will fade into nothing but background noise that you have forgotten the sweet sound it makes, lost under socks and hardwood.


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