There are six senses that a human might experience in their life. For six is a spectacular and fabled number for all manner of trickery and spectrums.

Sight, to see something brilliant

Smell, to heighten your appreciation

Taste, to make life truly living

Touch, to master the world around you

Hear, to make all rhyme

And thought, to dwindle, and idle; and lead one down a different path than the previous five senses, a beautiful side of the honeycomb surely. For it can lead you silly little things to things like me. Deep in the factory darkness your eyes will fail you, for the gloom will spread like tar across them.

The sense of smell is rendered inert, the choking smoke and dust and sweet smells are simply too much. Taste? Well, I suppose I needn't say it wouldn't do you much good anyways. Touch? You may fumble for a while across winding halls tracing concrete walls—but in fruitless effort. And hearing? Hum. I suppose it might help to keep yourself steady, but all certainty fades with time.

But thought? It will lead you to me. You will wander and wonder with steps entwined. My melody calling you close with heavenly rhyme.