Thin, white bones watch me from under the skin.
They stretch and crumple it in movement, that transparent membrane, the net of veins and nerves sensitive to every touch of the breeze in an unusually cold night of late June.
Bare shoulders rip the wind of dense darkness as if they were sharp white arrows, cowed, waiting, determined, for the first rays of sun that are still far on the brim of the night, far away, further than the stars.
Some sounds break the stillness; some lonely cries of iron beasts somewhere in the darkness, some echos of lonesome laughters evaporate in the small, lost streets.
We are the night shift, we are the guardians of the night air and the slumbering breaths of closed eyelids, we guard the dreams so no one can steal them, our white arrows and determined eyes fight the boogeyman that hides in the dark, for a few more hours of serenity, until the morning sun chases away all the monsters back into the very depths of the darkest shadows.
And the next night, the battle continues...
