This is the witching hour; the time before dawn where a faint glow low on the horizon filters through dark skies, shepherding in a new day.
A time of small songs, when crickets sing oblivious as water dragons wake from sleep, warmed by lamps, eager to eat
This is the time of cats, uncurled from slumber; who pad on soft paws to scratch at doors, demanding to be let free to roam once more along high walls and down amongst the toppled stones of quiet graveyards.
This is my time; with steaming mug in hand and glasses perilously perched on nose; wrapped in words that whirl from thought to page whilst the house breathes quietly on.
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