I stir to consciousness as the haze of my dream relinquishes its grasp on my perceptions.
It's almost hard to breathe...
Turning my gaze toward the clock,
I feel the weight of my skull dragging me down into the depths of my pillow.
The cost of my recovery, the toll paid in vigor,
continues its taxation on my constitution.
Faintly, the sound of the clock echoes
as if each sound must cross a sea of eternity to reach my ears;
as if each click of the hands were a poorer cousin to the fading light
of the stars above.
A seemingly meaningless bit of stimulation,
the beauty of its reverberance lost to the minutia of its affect on me.
Were the sources of all sounds akin to the source of starlight would we find new meaning in a single drop of rain,
or forget about the stars,
as they continue to light that eternal night?
