Tell me things, about when they weren’t like this, when you had to dress a dandelion just to hold down the fort for a night’s cabin. Man, I miss those nights, even the ones that have yet to dusk, that might resemble nights passed, in which case I can’t wait. Nights are like dying, which means they are also like living. I am always torn like a sunset. I want it to start but I don’t want it to be over.