the soft light from the pale moon and the dull illumination from my faltering streetlights is squirming its way past my canvas curtains, wiggling its way through the cracks in my window and piercing through my eyelids. I'm awake. lying spread eagle on a bed too empty, too big, and too rigid.
the light has entered with a purpose, snaking its way around my room, traveling solely on a path paved by the crevice where the ceiling and wall meet - occasionally veering onto my plush carpeted floor.
I don't know where it's going until it's too late and I can feel it heading towards me all the softness gaining momentum and speed and strength and wrapping slowly around my neck and constricting and tightening and whispering to me that it wished I hadn't stayed up all those nights watching it try to travel only to be thwarted by the sunrise, not offering to lend a helping hand, not doing much at all.
I see this scene unfold from above, detached from my own personal outcome - watching it, not able to lend a helping hand, not doing much at all.