Once upon a time, the broadcast day ended.
Once upon a time, we could sleep without talking.
Snow is just a season’s mark now.
Sleep is but a mode.
Living, breathing, pulsating snapshots of a past we cannot ignore—
A present so lost in posture and presentation.
The future, merely a meme.
Moments of solace in assumption
Until our world comes back around again.
We can try to hide—
Try to pull the covers up over our head…
But we talk in our sleep.
So inadvertently tragic.