(I told one of my friends once that most of the fiction I write is primarily to remember the pictures in my head. It has been this way for as long as I can remember, and is very true here.)

It is dark when I wake. Just a few hours ago, everything was full of life, loud and vibrant; now, it seems like the whole city has been enveloped in quiet, in soft breath, in dreams.

I tiptoe onto the balcony as the heavens turn from black to blue, like bruises blossoming in the night. How painful must it have been for the sky, to be robbed of its stars? I feel that urge, to run to my notebook, to write it down before I forget – but I wave it away for now.

It is sunrise, and it is beautiful.


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