Time is a trickster; the ticking clock: its vicious heart. It impregnates. It destroys. It heals. It unravels. It dons the skin of an imposter in the coldest stretch of night: a magician weaving fantasies that sear. Neutralize. Inspire. Though I wonder-- I worry-- are the days too long? Are the nights too dim and fleeting? Do I dance through each crescendo in a lurid, patchwork nightmare? Or are my dreams so full of pain, that soon, I'll shatter beneath them and finally wake up?