The Harpa Isabella O’Reilly
It stands alone. A monument to abstract thoughts glowing in the gloom.
Panes of glass that stare, stacked in prisms of colour. Waiting for your eyes.
The halls echo the sound of your footsteps, clapping. All you hear is you.
Wandering like dust, breathing in the light you see, all you hear is you. But all you see is me.
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