The lights are buzzing but it's unlike any fluorescent I've ever heard because there's a song in the permeating hum. I can't place it, standing there on a black plastic mat with the whisper of automatic doors opening and closing behind me, but it's real. It cradles my ears and strokes at my tired mind. I start to wander the scuffed linoleum with a nursery rhyme at my back.
The shelves are stocked, bursting with color and shape, but I can't place any of it. There's a sale on inked futures, each one stark and silent in rigid black structure. Next to them, a deal on fantasy done up in grey sketches, ten for the price of none. My eyes start to swirl and the smell of cold recycled air hits my nose.
Frozen moments and turning points encased in crystal stare at me from a line of glass doors.
I'm lost in hazy thoughts when the chirping starts. Or at least, when I notice that there's chirping at all. The light lullaby has been crowding out all other sound. The soft music of birds knocks the bla