bluedance
It was grey. Bleak. Desolate. She couldn't hear a sound through the mist and fog. Barely could she see her feet below her in the sand. Sand. Where was the ocean. So thick was the fog she couldn't hear it, but a distant purr of a wildcat.
It swirled around in dusty rivulets. Cloying and dam it clung to the gauze skirt of the dancer, her muscles trembling with the effort to stay still. Holding on to the impossible while balancing on almost nothing.
The papers that sat on the desk had long since scattered to the floor. Wind played through the broken window, rustling the papers on the ground like some many dead leaves, so many dead dreams.