Through the ripped cotton lies raw possibility. It seeps through the thin fabric and drip drops onto the matted mop of curls growing from my skull; it bounces around the metal walls of my ear drums and scrapes across my porcelain wrists all to imprint the sight of my writhing, stammering heart onto the insides of my eyelids.

It’s 2:37 a.m. It’s the time of bats and hidden moons and whispered secrets in strange beds, and cold pavement and lost children. I’m not exactly sure why any of this matters, but somehow it’s all connected, it’s all connected to me. And whether these things exist in a country ten thousand miles away or right here in my very neighborhood has no effect over me because here or there my heart is still struggling to survive.

One hour and four minutes later and it’s the time of cheering and icy hot beverages, pins and needles sliding down my throat and cracked voices. Slippery socks and clammy hands cling to slick countertops and I’ve lost count.

4:12- we’ve made it this far. It’s “I’ll race you to daybreak,” and volume two on my fuzzy TV because your voice is hot on my ear, and you’re egging me on. It’s a battle of the souls and I’m standing on the edge, three-hundred feet up and it’s how's and why’s and where’s.

Five a.m. is the possibilities are endless. Each breath is rich and I think maybe I’ve finally forgotten the scar on your top lip and the catches in your laughter. Nine years of education later yet the teachers all forgot to mention the reset code for this brain that never STOPS.