Her body is crumpled on the bed.
Everything in the room is left halfway through, everything's frozen under the moonlight,
heavy and still.
A half done jigsaw is on the ground, lost pieces laying around, as if they've been there for ages.
Her book is closed on the desk with a piece of paper in between the pages,
the line between life and death.
All the unread words are levitating, with no future.
The air around her smells like dreams and plans, but
her body is crumpled on the bed.
That spaceship made of flesh, a mixture of earth and stardust and soul,
that mysterious machine looks so motionless as if it will never move again.
But now,
the morning sun pushes through,
the golden rays crawl into the room bringing everything to life.
The body stretches,
The clock goes off,
Paganini echoes, the passionate sound of violin.
The whole room is alive.
Pages of the book will turn.
Lifeless words will come to life,
But at night, everything will be still again.
And tomorrow,
There's no tomorrow,
Tomorrow always freezes under the moonlight.
Today, is all that is real.
Paganini, sunlight and life.