11:58 On A Tuesday

This cold dark night. I can't sleep. Nor hold a coherent thought. The
light. Across my sleeping room. Shining through the silken curtain.
Beyond the grass, and under the walnut tree. It shines. The light.

12:03 on a Wednesday. I still can't sleep. Progress, says it's
tomorrow. Sanity says it don't matter.

I'm inclined to believe the ladder. I could suck my thumb and dream;
if I could.

Fog drenched feet

It's dark and damp. He see as though looking through fog. All around it permeates with far placed lights bleaching the night. Wrapping like a present it sits so closely by. But above, far above, the night sky shines clear. Leaving only specks of hope for this frail heart to seek.

As he steps, one, then two, now three. The fog moves round him just like in the 50's. A movie setting so serene, yet this is life no joke is told. The fag he holds burn hot and slow, illuninating his presence in the cold. It marks his path for all to see, it marks his soul poor drenched with hurt. He'll smoke it down, until it is dead, smoldering butt in hand. Then his hand rests by his side and slowly it drops to the fog soggy cold.