- 4:59

in the pre dawn, the best words of living seem to roam the earth - mythological compositions free to evolve instantaneously. so, like astronomers in hungry anticipation for an eclipse, I keep my restless nights open to the light these metaphors can shed into my frenzied existence. working the day away behind a computer in an over conditioned building with locked windows, i wonder how much longer, for what purpose, and why. the quiet and haunting night wild with possibility... the interstitial space of day to day: electric garbage trucks operating with quiet mechanical power, the bottle pickers rumaging in bins, green lights and red lights equally projecting to street cleaners driving against the one way. freight cars smash and bench sleepers stir. as twilight gives way to dawn, the magic of in-between coagulates. bird chips sound the alarm, bats return to the parking garages, and the metaphors of possibility are drown in the language of entrenched value and economy. this diurnal migration perhaps a porthole through the now - where the hourly salried wage is at it's weakest and imagination can be breathed into productive society's remnants. the winter of the day where time is free to meander or race as it pleases. at least that's what flashes through my skull when my eyes wink long in the warm womb of the 2 oclock afternoon... "i'm just saving myself for the best part of the day when I can be me... when I can hunt the words of substance, metaphors of meaning, and my antennae are more receptive to the calls from outer space."

5 oclock. birds sound the alarm.