I was up at twilight, counting the legacies of fading stars, trying to preach to burglars jimmying locks unshut. But it was no use. The burglars escaped both the sermon and hypnosis-by-fading-star. While I counted until the last star I could see came up and blinded me.
Morning. Nothing that rung true in the dark, delicious in shadow and beautiful in silhouette holds. All the fundamental truth in the world is written along the contours of your sleeping face. My evil twin mocks me in the mirror. She’s proud of what she made me do. The lies we made to cover up our ugly have no allies now. Our angels no longer want to understand: he says you’re ungrateful; she says I’m heartless. And our demons have deserted us, taking the gall we relied on with them.