There is a sound in my room.
It should be a commentary for the visuals which play upon the walls just below the ceiling but it warbles like a wayward tape machine in my soft, pink, newly formed ears.
All that remains of the story is a collection of mismatched noises, fake moans and tired, exasperated sighs.
Picking out the sense is a delicate task, nuances of truth a no-no, and of your sweet voice… nothing.
Just the words, daubed in graffiti red, dripping in splodges, down the white walls…
“Don’t do as my father does. Do as he says.”