As old as the world itself, the nights gray with age. The moon sways from a heat of iron to a pale of cream. With a pinch of showing faith, a heart tends to abstain from a prevailing droop. The hours counting to the shores of daytime are trapped by old records crooning a sweet surrender that somewhat lingers the fond familiarity of a Christmas night, now in July. Wherever beyond may be, may the music tuning hearts together endure.

Old habits die hard and my riddling faith sings an eccentric refuge. It is not my place, it is not my time, but it is still mine.