So I found this old...thing I wrote some time ago (April, last year?)

A soft entrance of pianissimo notes marks the beginning of the piece. Calm and peaceful, but at the same time mysterious and invokes much curiosity. You open your eyes, and your gaze seems to penetrate the roof. Although you see, you do not remember. You register not the streak of grey dust clinging to the ceiling fan, the incessant buzzing of the mosquito, nor do you make anything of the sounding alarm, for you cannot hear, or rather comprehend what you are hearing. For it makes no sense to you, you hear not. You see, but you do not see. You stumble in this state of half-awareness and you cannot move your limbs. For you do not know you have limbs. You do not acknowledge the existence of them, as you are not thinking, nor are you attempting to. The delicate movement of clean sixteen notes decorates and accompanies the low chord. Your field of vision, the images you see, they seem to be getting sharper, more defined, the soft blurry edges morphed into angry straight lines. You are confused, and your seemingly dormant brain starts to work. The sixteen notes crescendo-ed to a forte-fortissimo, then with a loud clash of the cymbal, everything elapses into an abrupt silence. There is nothing left.