When the words weren't there, tranquility enveloped our world.

There was comfort in our presence, but discomfort in your conscious.

It was always that way... I remember.

Away from the garden shed, were dark curtains we'd hide in. We didn't like those who weren't us... outsiders.

We enjoyed being blind; in a game of thoughts and what ifs. The brightest thing in such a dark existence was our garden growing, growing, withering, dying...

Behind the garden shed, we had cultivated wilting sunflowers and dying roses.