The sun won't be up for several hours now, but i'm dying to look at it. That's not the best note to start a birthday, to want to die for something. But such is the strange paradox of dreaming at night with your eyes open.
Tonight will never be the same again, for once in this streak of living, the past and the future are blown away by the sheer intensity of the present.
The sun, for all its handsomeness of feature, for the brazen glory with which it shines will still not make my day.
The night will. The night will make my day.
