"Somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, I and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(I do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands"

-Ee Cummings

While immsensely pondering across flights of deafening stairway lights and immobilised pigment of one moment, the air runs stifling deep with the infestation of insomnia. The nitty gritty of this night's forecast surely depicts a lot and in addition, it is coupled up with intense pounding in the head. Vision now interprets in parallel with surrealism of a dream you sometimes find yourself lost in.

If only nights didn't exist, then the world would never have to be painted in such piqueness of black. Tonight doesn't smear blankets of troubles and their spells. Tonight simply reads blank, alongside the irony of these words.

A yawn would come in handy as a good sign.