Four, almost five a.m. --
The witching hour for those who prey upon the wee minutes of the morning and fool themselves into believing it is still nighttime.
Brains fastidiously pursuing ramblings of false ambitions and heady pipe dreams of successes that are too far away to be real,
(But just real enough that they can nearly be brushed by eager fingertips)
Goals that aren't goals, follies of the highest calibur.

Stars above dance their sparkling song in a silent vibrance,
Inspiring those minds that wander into illusory comfort, for a time;
That or the rocky crags of anxiety that accompany reminiscent thoughts picturing those moments one is most ashamed of.
Northern lights slip across a vast plain, and the mind mumbles on, spitting blood.