The Birth of Kings

Twilight, twilight, twilight...

What a night. This night. Every night. To walk around this building, lit by fluorescent lights, delighting in the buzz and click and hum of the elevators, to dance down corridors, rubbing coarse carpeting with bare feet, to bathe in heater warmth with eyes near closing -- to be young and awake forever -- what a joy, what joy, what a joy, joy, joy we're faced with.

If only a blanket of static fell over us. A quilt of night subdued. If the world was the mind, quiet, but racing -- spinning rapidly without a sign of a scratch or a swerve. The hours would blip away one by two by thee by four, but tangled in a web of meaninglessness. The clocks would slow to a stop. Stop to a slow. Rotating back and forth like pendulums.

To be young and passionate and alive all at once. So much good in so little bad.

The feverish hum of the light bulbs. Electricity coursing through a living breathing building with hundreds of sleeping bodies. The few of guardsmen awake. What joy, what joy, what a joy, joy, joy to be faced with.

We're the lucky few. Those who shed sleep like tights. Or shirts. Or underwear. Who see the strange morning hours. Who notice the clocks which read nothing and everything. Who embrace the reds and blues and yellows and greens like friends long awaited. Who find peace and solace in peace and solace. Who embrace each other tightly, so tightly. Who cling, nails biting skin, hoping that maybe, maybe they did something right. That this joy is ours forever. That morning will never come.

Here passion is born. And never dies. Not ever.

Not ever. Don't you see? We're young and here forever.