There’s this odd whistle outside. It’s nearly three in the morning and I can’t tell if it’s late night trash haulers or if the streetwalkers have picked up another bad habit.

There’s a metallic hum that flows from the bathroom. Beset on both sides by intriguing noises— sleep will come swift, but not without precursors to the dreams.

The sun has returned and with it a vitality that I’d forgotten I possess. An easily solved mystery once you look through years of journal entries between November and March— the dreary moments and me do not make great bedfellows.