This Endless Hour

At this endless hour, I feel like a hazy reflection of myself. A ghost image, glimpsed in a time-smeared and dusty mirror. Worn thin like much-folded paper. Empty as old leaves. My body is stiff. It aches slightly. Through the window, I can now see the treeline -- against a sky gone from jet to indigo. I don't know why I'm here, writing this. The light is coming up.

I am thirsty.