It's 5:00 am

   The world is asleep
   everything seems still
   (Except the heartbeat of the sea that never seems to cease,
   soothing troubled thoughts with its infinite pulse)
  The world is a clash of still and rural.
The sky blushes the softest shade of pink, complementing the pale shade of blue, as soft as a mother's kiss on her newborn child's forehead.
  The skyline, though etched with the softest colours, maintains its ferocity-never letting us believe it is not our governor, the ruler and observer of all.
  Vivid colours clash and compete, biting each other like siblings in a fight, one taking over the other until nothing is left but the slow fade of the moon's unearthly glow.
Through the quiet still of dawn, the first rural sounds are made; the first tweeting of an early-risen bird, the booming of the car of the hard-working man; the lazy paddling of someone who the God of slumber had yet to hastily kiss goodnight (dawn is this mans' lover).

Surrounded by this beauty, by this infinite potential of hollow peace,
of momentary silence,
my thoughts seem to cease as well, in order to pay respects to this natural shrine of artistry.

The only thing tying me to my feet being the bitter taste of caffeine and smoke,
the only thing tying my mind to my body being the constant whisper of waking nightmares
though they too seem to still in awe; letting me cut them open and pulse them out into ink and paper.