Three Hundred Twenty-Seven

In a place where train whistles cry and the night goes on forever there is a light.

Bright. Obtrusive.
Slicing through obsidian,
fading as it appears.

Artichokes become sweaters and northern states fly into bubbles. An unnatural break in a comfortable silence, each starshine bringing a new sparkle inside the oceans of your eyes.

Suddenly
the music       
stops. 

..Dammit, Dan.

[Listening to: N.E.R.D., "Maybe"]