These years of sleepless nights make me feel like a time traveler. Watching the stars and reliving all my old choices and loved/hated moments. I'm unknown why I seem so transfixed on them in the sleeping world. The last to be awake in my life. Listening to the rains and the firetrucks at 2 AM. You would think the town was burning down. That we lived on a match stick.
The day is a peek into the well-rested soil.
Such odd forests of moss-covered time.
I guess I use those moments late in the night to see all the angles of my life. They are not sharp points so much anymore as soft reflections of rain puddles. The rings are left in old coffee cups that have been hand washed. Not so much maturity as impressions left on the skin from leaning on door latches.
The art of growing weeds in coffee mugs.
