I peep out my window just after 12. Chilly air seeps through the cracks in the frame and onto my resting hands. The pale glow of the crescent in the heavens shimmers through the glass and towards my tired skin. Trees, just dim shadows and the air so clear in the crisp bewitching hour. A twitch in the bushes, maybe a bird grasps my attention enough for me to jump. To alarmed to investigate I leap back into my sheets and fall into a slumber, dead to the world around me.

 

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Writing