Short nights. Morning comes way too soon. No dreams to speak of. The constant state of being awake.

I thought of you. How there is no beginning, middle, or end. Just an existence. A myth we can not erase.

When I hear rain hitting a tin roof, the sound tells a story. A tale of two people wanting a small portion and getting nothing. We asked for just a taste. The gods were not kind.

They gave us love. And we fell into this trap knowing we were being laughed at. A play for their entertainment. Bacchus watched and turned the channel.