Sleepy eyed in a quiet town, with just a bed-time snore to brand the night for all it was worth. A giggle there, a whisper there. The night rests sombre along the shore of reminiscences. A closet of dreams and a nightstand of slivers and sheets rest beside. An empty plate with a fork looking up. A camera and a lamp long dead from a burnt out fuse. A cordless mouse. Two books and a jar of cream, and pens, and two name tags that point to a faraway place.

Cream-coloured paint on the wall, a dreamy clinic for wandering night eyes; the vent, smoke detectors and invisible sneaky bugs of a metal bush. Deodorants just twenty feet away beside a basket of goodies that now just cups the wisps of air from behind the curtain. Either that or loose coins that make their home into the cracks of its browning chest. Others are straws, and hangers, and toilet rolls strutting underneath the shade. A padlock  here made of silver: Chicago-bought, and a white floor littered with shoes.

Then, a snore and a sigh: the city sleeps.

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