The new year

The Whocares rises like a fog, a liquid fog, blurring all around, and I'm tossing a year through the window. This year, next year. Fadeout to vaccuum.

That year I repeatedly toss through the glass just to have it land at my feet once more, shining with mirror shards, and before me cracked panes, various reflections, what is, could be, could have been. If.
And I step out of bed at night when I can't sleep, to peer soundlessly into the shattered glass. The dark orange light of moons and sodium lamps draws every crack so pure, so simple, every fragment a golden pool in which everything will could is have been all right. I reach out and shards draw black blood in the no-light, but if I don't see it, it doesn't exist, till morning. I go to sleep on broken glass, lost in the myriad painted reflections, which all but make one as I climax to Morpheus.

By the light of day it's all so different.
Days are clearcut and white. Night is whole with fantasies coated in feather coats of Reason, whores before every front door, dressed as Aristotle, cracking open the door to fetid passionate dark. Night is everyone, everything, every feeling animal and strong.
If night were to stretch, we would go insane with the passion and the possibilities, awash in a neverending surge which forgoes the lines between yester, to-day, morrow. Insane enough to forgo time itself.
Insane as irregular breathing, insane as touches forbidden, insane as forbidden thoughts, insane as waves breaking under wind.

Irate and inflamed.