They are heard everywhere, they break from the hills and mountains and until here those noisy pieces arrive, pieces of a broken sky. Fragmented and falling pieces, just like diving birds into an ocean of nothingness, coarse and without any direction. Loosing all elegance and grace, the sky keeps falling, not even producing enough number of pieces to be metaphorical or poetic, they only fall 284 big chunks of sky, irregular and impartial, simple and dismal fragments of what they used to be. The sky is falling slowly, some parts are still up, but there's no point anymore, the blue-sky color lost its name today.

At the sight of those shreds of ethereal matter, one can realize what they truly are, dreams. One can peep out the pieces in the floor and tune into a dream, from who or when? who knows, but someone not so far from there, not so long a go dreamed with swimming in a soup pool. And so there they were, cracked and shattered, the sad and abandoned dreams, every unfulfilled wish, every toy car that wasn't given to Jimmy on Christmas, every prospect of a boyfriend Lucy never had, and the millions of dreams with hopes of winning the lotto, all there, tumbledown.

And while more nosy people got near the show, more dreams were seen, the peeping remained there more as a hobbie than an interest, the curious commented how on Earth could that had happened? When had people started dreaming with appearing in a shampoo advertisement?! People wondered if the rest of the sky would fall, they questioned themselves how many more dreams would be broken.


[200 complete portrayed dreams, each as useless as the former one]
By I'm the penguin