It's 2:39 in the morning and my eyes are sore from old tears. The ache of nostalgia radiating through my chest, seeping into every bone. The chill of the night air colliding with my frame, curled up on worn down shingles. The silhouette of sleeping houses and faintly shimmering lights from distant city life are all I can see through hooded lids. A familiar yet alien tune echoes through my ears. I am not listening to what is being said. There may be nothing being said. This song no longer serves the same purpose of bringing me warmth on the coldest of nights. No, now it reminds me of how frigid I still felt, it's minuscule flame unable to bring life back to my gelid soul. My true fear was never to fall back into my misery, but to fall back into my apathy.
