The hardest part is the night.
Movie on, volume low, as I try to sleep.

Trying is not doing.

Pretend the city traffic sounds
are sounds of other people
trying to sleep. Each, in
our own way, as hopeless
as the other. They are
wondering where the
other cars are going,
and so am I.

Where do we go? Where,
if in fact, we never leave
the places we are at.

Turning, Tossing.
Eyes closed. Brain open.

A man is shouting on the street.
Words indistinct, but anger
clearly present. Why do
we get angry so easily?
Why can we be so
flippant and intolerant?

Hiding. Bodies, masked
in faces of temporary smiles.

What are the wishes,
the requests, of the
smiles driving the cars.

If I had one request. One
magic wish to use above
any others. It'd be to
sleep peacefully in
the pattern of the night.