We live in a land where the footprints of ghosts linger. Each moment in time repeated by a parade of the dead. Everything that passes before our eyes, and each step that we take, bear the markings of those who came befote.

Each towering strucutre like a tombstone standing proudly within the graveyard of our cities. The writhing of traffic upon our streets as the clattering of bones within the crypt. The spirit of man persists within the things he leaves behind.

Slowly, meekly, all will turn to dust. All will return to what it once was. Or, perhaps as close as it can be to what once was. For nothing may ever truly be restored. No matter how ancient a wound may be the scars persist. An echo of remembrance, the faintest hint of a memory playing at the corner of our minds.

If you take a moment of pure silence and compound it into a lifetime of solitude you can just begin to taste the lonliness of a lifetime forgotten.

Forgotten by the world.

Forgotten by their family.

Forgotten by themselves.

We live in a land where the footprints of ghosts linger, but the ghosts themselves stand still.