The World...

Wallace's arched spine laid snudgely on his armchair with straightened legs, right over left, left heel serving as a pivot on the squarish box of a sub-woofer underneath his desk. The rectangular Ikea wooden desk's design could not be any closer to simple. Only two speakers and a couple of books, served to mask, to a minimal extent, the emptiness of the deck. His elbows stayed glued to the arm-rests as his nimble wrists and fingers orchastrated the scripts.

This is a world that has been exclusively his solace from the mundanes of routine. A world whose beauty held no bounds and yet took no more than the simplest of imagination to conjure. His fingers dancing on the keyboard, the pitches and tones hypnotised his consciousness every now and then. Consciousness... Is that the name for the prison cell which chains us to a land called Reality?

When hes weary, the wrists stayed, eyes closed and chins lifted, he paused momentarily, just to bask in the aural of that world. A world that is his and yours to share.

Hi. Have you been there?