I have left this marbled host of the future's tired, brilliant minds at a quarter to four in the morning. I am still and bewitched from the latest spell of writer's mania. I have reached the highest point of the neighboring smokies. It's advised that when descending from a hike, one should proceed with caution in order to avoid straining. So I slowly observe the surroundings I have detached myself from for the past couple of hours. I line my psyche in a goldenrod shade of velvet. Simultaneously comforted and stimulated. The observational sky is inky, like the residue resting in between the lines on my finger tips. The person striding next to me and I have made the conscious decision to enjoy the silence. We step in unison, their gaze wanders, but their intent is fixed on the destination. Uncalled for precipitation is falling in a quixotic manner. It is now three minutes past four and there are cardinals chirping. I bid my companion from this stroll a goodnight. As the elevator closes they earnestly compliment the magnitude of my pupils. I had been complaining about sleepless nights, but now I am being tucked into bed by the nocturnal kind's ways. It is now twenty-seven minutes past four.