I know that the city lights are powered by broken dreams. At this hour they hum like insects casting amorphous shadows into the engulfing dark. Tiny islands of butchered hope to light the way for the disenfranchised, the ugly, the downtrodden, for if the night exists for one purpose it is to shelter those forsaken by the sun. I am an unwelcome guest in both elements. Somewhere concretely removed, an observer of my own and others actions. I peer seamlessly from the asphalt that grinds like brimstone beneath my shoes and stare up at the night sky which has been given a skyline of perpetual twilight, the stars being buried beneath the millions of tiny laments that light the path of those condemned to a terrestrial existence.