this 13th hour. picture a boy. picture a boy sitting cross legged on an off-white carpet. the carpet reaches up to greet him, grinning that stained smile he's come to know. like the ghost of a butterfly, he's perched over it watching glaze oppressing his vision trying to feel numb as the brush underfoot. picture his heart. not the muscle of blood and current that dully pulses behind his eyes, no. the one that you can feel yourself step over. the one that is slick with sorrow, hobnobbed with pain. cracked as an ice sculpture would under the fine pinch of an icepick. it wheezes, weakly trying to draw in pieces its missing; pieces missing like the Titanic is 'missing.' missing under miles of brackish water, black and cold. with broken dolls strewn across the decks and ripped dresses lying at disturbing angels yet its breath draws only nettles, those that sting and infect, following the trail of metaphysical veins unt il they burst backwards into memory. picture this naked heart is crawling across a floor of broken granite sun turning jagged earth into fiery spikes there is no safe oasis which it can hide in, drink from, be rested at, no there is no respite for this boy. the quiet dark of lonesome cradles him softly, unwilling to heed his struggles. smiling crookedly and choking him letting his eyes bulge as he reaches, grasping air, grasping nothing. trapped; eloquently preserved in ice. his back and the wind blows in the gray, the midnight purple. halogens flash the milky ice, turning it crystal and ruby the ground littered with sky fire and the night a heaven of dancing shadow. this place is a witching hour for the mind. a harsh sedative for excitement like handing baking chocolate to a child.