It is midnight perfect here. The rain falls heavily outside, rising to a crescendo, then falls to back its usual noise of its grind. The eaves drop like perspiration. It is otherwise quiet but not dark. The city needs light, but what is lit is left to be desired.
Drive out to past the dull ache of street lamps, and I find myself where it used to be home. That nowhere in the now, that none of my memory matters.
Just new ones, but never as many, as well as those before. Just the dreams that come and go on nights like these, and nevermore upon wakening.