…at four in the morning, the room was sharp and silent through the stillness of the dark and yet, I sang those old songs swaying in the cold wind with bottle upon my breath as I dreamt of green birds and the lonely white lotus that kept fluttering into my scratched head while coming apart at the seams with tears of sadness I sat and pondered where they all went: those little caramel ladies of brown doom with novocaine souls and enamel bodies; you gave me the liveliest moments even when you brought me to the brink of death, you have liberated me during my most shackled state of mind, you spilled the truth when you told me, “I could never be reached.” and therefore I must come to terms with the absence of your warmth as the green birds have flown into concrete skies and the white lotus has shriveled into a curling black mass I sway with the wind, rising the bottle and belting out those old songs in a room so sharp and silent at four in the morning.