The night sky burns, as if to remind me of the streetlamp glaring in my window. Burns, as if the day is refusing to die tonight. But I know this is just a trick of the eye and low cloudcover. Above, night, sweet eternal night, gowned in her finest gown of black and white. How I wish for the smell of cold, moonglow on snow. But tonight is ruddy like warm clay, and I will not sleep.