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"]

Comments