"4:30" am

Time for the misfits to stir in their beds, parading the streets like madmen in a ceremonious exclamation of pure ecstasy meandering endlessly, to the very edge of nothing at all. Time for the trees to wake and converse with one another, in a dialogue of whispers that only the moon and the weary can follow. Whispering of the people who hear without listening and look without seeing. Who are tainted by earthly concerns that hold no meaning at the end of the day. Time for the alcoholic to stumble in boorishly. Who does it for the purpose of spiting the wife he does not love, and son who does not love him and the world that never seemed to want him; puckering its foul lips and spitting him out like a bitter taste upon the tongue. Time for the restless to wander the streets in their catatonic states, waiting for something or someone to reassure them of goodness in the world.