In Parallel Worlds the morning spreads his dew grieving over fallen leaves, a reflection of dream frozen in time hanged on a washing line like an old worn out clothe. Days are named after moments lived and recorded in a Book of Random. Night composes music in black and white keys and plays it to the daydreaming stars. In the hourglass time trickles through the neck of present and the guardian turns the world upside down when the last grain of sand empties the past, taking moments into the future. All is fleeting, all is peaceful, all is as it is. In Parallel Worlds.