Seven-thirty rings the bells of her skin and the day catches in my throat like a cough. I yawn into the rays of my windowpane and gaze out into the dew-spinning after-dawn. The rain-clouds are rolling their morning stroll across the super highway of the sky where birds roam without worry of the earth or its worms. I mourn for the seven hours I lose in slumber come each nightfall, how the dark comes so quickly, each lost segment of my life’s time leaving only unconscious brain-clicks of memory. Later in the day, and only half-dressed, I stand atop the stairs and watch my daughters shoes fall into the darkened abyss of our front foyer. I imagine our life-forces, a complete countdown of our minutes lived, the complete creation of each living being is but a star-fall into the great unknown, a catapulting piece of gray amongst the red clouds of mars; we live for a while and then wave as we pass into another realm of matter. We walk the light of the earth, uknown, and wake each day unsure of where we went while we were sleeping.