The Hour, Late

My, it is late...or early.

And quiet.

I'm light on the keys (because even small sounds throw big shadows in these hours). Hence typing like whispering and the machine's muted audio. The stillness is here like a ghost -- but for the fan, and rumours from the not-so-distant highway. Those shadows sigh-in through the screens.

This screen shines (mostly pale) and blinks. No breath. No real context.

I feel vaguely haunted by the quiet, the stillness, the hours. And my undreaming state.

Though now it is even earlier.

Or later.