The Hours.

[lenstalk]

I find I cannot rest well.  The late hour enters in like a roommate coming home after having been gone long enough to bring back weight upon their return.  A conversation with little word but great memento and yearning carries on.  Leaving me lying down to the floor; beaten, pinched, and uncomfortable.  The early morning hour arrives shortly after.  She touches gently, whispers in the light to my soul, and tells me to rise again.   She confides in me that elusive moments of grand senses await my finding,  to tell of them to others.

Through the door again.