​The moon drifts ever so slowly as the sun beams on arrival, welcoming the well-rested souls of the east. In the east, cool light bounces off red clay homes, and visiting animals wander through and feed on what has been laid about. From home to home and across the streets, the discreet creatures hop between the gardens, enjoying the benefits of one, moving on to the next, falling oblivious of what they left behind. The people inhale and exhale in unison; they wake together from restful night, ready for the day to begin once more. The land is but a whisper of tranquility, the sky a vast space of understanding, open interpretation, and the scent, and the scent of, and the scent of subtle salt, and the scent of, and the scent of subtle-

The buildings are all, essentially, the same here. They call their home a village, bustling with emptiness. Not empty of life, rather empty of purpose or meaning, leaving behind only thoughtless joy in existence. The systems of the land lack the needless complexity so many civilizations unknown had demanded, desired. There were those who farmed and supplied the food, those who cleaned the public gardens, those who prepared the children for apprenticeships, those who enforced what little laws were broken, and, with all these varying occupations, none overpower or out-benefit the other; none came with a cost. There was one law that all wish to follow and, at times, break. When one breaks this law and does not acquire consulting from the proper authorities, they do things... that not even the former them desired, whoever the former may be. All are equal of status and living, sharing a communal state of mind; But that does not mean that there is no leadership. There is no longer the Sheppard, only the Sheep and the Sheep who leads. But who would think less of such a way of living; it was, simply, the way.

Light rapping came from the apartment door. Seán, hesitant to leave the comforts of his bed, listens for a neighboring room to answer the gentle taps. No such action occurs, of course. Rolling out of bed, he drags calloused feet and throws on black uniform pants. As he did so, dry eyes notice the alarm clock on his cabinet top; the hands don't move. They were frozen at 11:59. He reaches over for the plastic silver-coated clock and trashes it as he leaves his bedroom. Shuffling past the room beside, he listens in for noise, gentle groans could be heard. For a moment, his fist hovers before the door.

The tapping continues as Seán makes his way into the kitchen, concocting sweetener-deprived coffee and pouring himself a cup. Once he finally makes his way and is a meter's distance, the noise falls mute. Just as sound had, Seán stops in his tracks. An eloquent and light voice speaks behind the door, "Hello? Would this home possibly belong to the Flame brothers?" After debating in his mind whether or not to leave the door closed, he opens the door with the hand not holding the half-empty glass of black.

On the other side stood a young girl around twelve years of age. She wore flowery overall shorts and a polka dot collared shirt beneath. For a moment, she lets her recoil slip, but she recollects and smiles with tightly closed lips, pleasant; her posture is upright, tense, with hands holding one another behind her back. A large mole rested beneath her right eye on her orange-tanned skin. Curly brown hair wrapped around her forehead and loosely held together in two braids over her broad shoulders. Her nose and smile so big that they took up a majority of her round face. Had the deep brown of her eyes not been so wide and bright, the eyes would have gone unaccounted for. Pearl bejeweled gloves present a black enveloped letter with an unknown white signature atop it and a sunflower as large as the hands holding it. "You must be Mr. Luke Flame. The description given of you was very precise. However, I did expect you to be a bit... different." She spoke, quickly in manner and in such a way that it'd be impossible to know her true age without visual evidence. "I hope to meet with you soon again, Mr. Luke Flame." She says as she turns her back to him and quickly strides away.

Seán, taking another sip of his coffee, turns his back from the hall and stares into the living room. Heavy eyes glaze over the trash bin. Mumbling curses beneath breath, his body drags itself back to his room, trashing the letter on the way.

~

The same dream occurs nightly. As though her mind lacks the creativity . . . or is forcing it upon her, she sees the same thing -not that she minds. She has no mind to or not to. The thing she sees, though it appears in her mind every night, hazily leaks out her pupil, pouring out an indistinguishable outlined blur of... Sounds, keys, always resonate in the distance of her mind at this time. A sound of an unfinished piece repeated, never added on to. The chime of glass and wind wakes her. Eyes open to the yellow-orange sunlight and her nose reintroduces itself to the natural scent of greenery, and her body sways on a bed of water. Fingers reach up to wet cheeks, and an eye looks out to the silhouetted truth. Bones crackle and pop as she sits up and grabs the small book on the tabletop beside. Her breath reeks of silence from the night before. Into the empty pages she blankly stares. Thin fingers wrap around the snug maroon-inked pen and stab onto the page. Like blood from a closing wound, ink bleeds lightly through the page. The pen lifts from the page and rests again beside the closed shut book. She looks out to the space before her. Eyes sting, lips twitch, mind pangs. A gentle breeze -so it seems to be- flips the book open, slightly tearing the page it lands on. She writes.

A supposedly blue sky pierces my veins, forcing its colors inside. Forever lost within.

~

Everyone wants the "utopia". No one believes in it to ever exist or come into being. To work for ourselves and promote the general welfare all in one- calloused hands hold one another up in a chain above the pointed pillar artifacts we ourselves have built and the chain builds itself believing to get higher up by growing longer and longer by growing closer and closer and, the closer we get to the utopia, the closer some are to the tip of the pillars and the pillars seem to remain all the same, eroding at the base. What if we did not build? What then? What would become of humanity?