5B
All the ghosts flail about. Looking for the nooks and searching for the cranny's. Like poached egg white. Swooshing around a pan. The electricity starts, tradition. Spectre's are hiding now the sweet sound scared 'em. The sound subsides and the lasers are back, searchlights all around a very old factory. It powers up with a din and a thud, it's purpose a bump in the night. Inside the machine springs bounce slowly but I don't know why. Like breathing but mechanical, up and down and up and down lungs fill and deflate, the spirits chatter, free now, as the sounds wind down before one last up up up and away.
|