The days flicker on and off. I squint from a headache. Stood in the rain trying to remember my name, a cat darts between my feet. Black and white. Soaked. There’s a distinct lack of sunlight in the sky which worsens my already worsening mood. The air is light, yet heavy. Dry, like wet sand. There’s a pentagram on the back of my hand, although my palm is clean. Like snow. Like a memory of chrysalis from a time now buried beneath the gaze of a trillion dead suns. The cat meows. A dog barks. It’s war, but an invisible one. It’s been raging for years, and I know it’ll never end. Still, you’ve got to laugh. If you don’t laugh, life stinks like shit. It sticks in the back of your throat like a pube. The streetlights simmer. It’s that time of the day. The great in-between when a thirst for life and a desire for the end dance like the light of fireflies, out of reach yet guiding us along all the same.