Spoiled milk, spilled drinks, and the tiled wall seemed about to close in through the liquid’s flow. A call from deep slumber sank in the stream of dream and was sipped back through. As the early sunlight flared and filtered through broken glass panes and softly soothed the cramped sleepy sweaty bodies with the humid summer heat, the old shafts and dirty bed sheets stirred like a plowed brown earth. Just as the rooster’s lazy crow was heard, the burdened chests and starving mouths heaved and shooed the crumpled paper plates on the rusty creaky bed. The room seemed like a barren scene if not for the swinging crib. Then an infant cried; a siren wailed from the street. The clock clicked at six. The room stayed still. Indeed there are dreams we cannot leave.
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