twenty one

that's it, pale morning midnight-- cast there in streetlamps, burned neon, cadence footsteps. there it lies in the wooden entrance, cold doors, insulated there among the trees. some kind of path before you, step by step, marked out in the fog, the mist of the early entrance. the howl in the hollow. the figurehead. where the echoes no longer resonate, they fall silent. no mirrors. no windows. cold, shimmering light. stillness. being. while everyone sleeps, that's when substance comes alive.