Dawn is locked in pastel reverie. A witness to the slow, fleeting genocide of stars as they are burned out one by one. The morning expands suddenly over the course of dawns gauntlet. The traffic and life of all men begins to trickle in time as the heavens die. The waltz of civilisation and Progress has entered its overture. Let us pray the dancers knows the steps. The jazz of night-time has left, only the instruments remain, frozen in morning dew.


Dawn licks up her pastels in a binge that leaves the day a clean blue plate. The scents of jasmine and wet asphalt greet this day; it is the stench of midnight mystery dying in the sun.


Poets have words for this condition; we have written about maladies for centuries.