The death of a dream begins slow. Not slow like the last moment before an accident, when time slugs and the world thins. Not slow like a rainy evening, or a bad movie on a lazy Sunday. Not even like the cautious crawl of a cat, or the queue at the grocery store.
But rather, slow like drops of water leaking from a tightly closed tap.
Drip. Pause. Drip. Pause. Drip.
It is the sound of a scream incurred in the conduits of your chest. It is the sound of a dispossessed heart waiting to wither.