Whispering things into the night, whether they’re wrong, or whether they’re right. If you hear them, turn away, because if you hear them, you’ll want to stay.
From where we are, standing silently in the darkened hallway. With the night winds whispering, we can hear the silent secret whispered words, dripping off the tongues of the condemned confessors. Pleading for silence and secrecy. Closure, some would say.
But we hear them, the sorrows spoken, the bonds being broken, words being choked in, debt yet to pay.
You might not notice, but we’re the ghosts of your past, future, and present. You can’t hide or escape us.
Your words, secrets, confessions, the things you hate, the things you love, and everything in between. We know about those weird dreams you have too. . .
And here we stand, in the light of the dying moon and in the hallway between rooms, whispering things. . .
And that’s that kitty cat!