It’s 1:32 a.m.

Nothing is real.

The world exists only as a little glass microscope

That sits behind consciousness.

Nothing will matter, sing the voices.

Whisper the wind in my ear,

and the aphrodisiacs of the falling snow.

Childish Memory comes out to see who I’ve become.

Who am I to fall into the music?

As I press my head to the glass,

I am above regret,

and sorrow,

and tired hands obey the quiet mind.

I do not speak,

Because my voice is a powerful silence.

The snow will flurry down regardless.

I make peace.

It’s 1:32 a.m.

Where are you?