The day is bleeding into the edges of night, pastels seeping into the corners of the horizon line. In a few more minutes the rush of reality will become too bitter of a pill to swallow together, so we’ll mumble goodbyes while the sky still feels genuine and the streetlights can still slice through the haze. My feet are no longer glued to the sidewalk, legs lifting from the grass to run through the door before the sun can bleach the memories sickly sterile and the music fades from the drywall. While the rest of the world squeezes the sleep from their eyes and the washes the promise of night from their pores, we’ll crawl into cold beds, still sedated enough from the near darkness. The difference between us and them is their dreams begin at dark and ours only start to fade at dawn. All day we’ll pretend to harbor nothing more than the world’s ticking hands as we wait to become nothing more than pawns of an inky sky.