All people dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in dark recesses of their mind wake in the morning to find that it was vanity. But the dreamers of the day are dangerous people, for they dream their dreams open eyes, and make them come true.
– D. H. Lawrence
The wind blows, chill biting my lips. Street lights cast ghostly orbs of sterilized light against grimy shadows that crowd closer to the pale mirage of warmth. Music in my ears, and I am chasing my muse through abandoned alleys and desolate roads in a sleeping village. He is always the same, sitting just beyond the light, eyes and shoulders heavy. Footsteps echo against concrete glimmering with frost. Breath comes in deep gasps, legs burning, puffs forth evanescent steam. He is pale and lean, blue eyes beg to be brought to life. Pencil to paper, finger tips to keys, I lace words with the drug that sustains him. In the night, in the dark, where secrets hide in shadows and kisses rise like steam, I chase my muse, scrawl my dreams. But the inevitable daylight breaks through, dispelling the cover of darkness, and he is gone. And yet not, lingering still, in the spaces of stolen time. One day I will bring my muse from the shadows. He will not disappear in the dawn, and I will sleep soundly through the night like the rest of this tired place. Eyes wide open, unafraid, we will blaze brightly even against the glare of the midday sun. But for now I wait, content in these nightly visitations, occasional day time touches, future wishes.