Empty Night

At midnight, after a few too many sleepless sighs, I wrapped a blanket over my pajamas and stepped out under the brown glow of a street lamp. I stood there, cold, for several minutes. Everything was distant: the memory of half formed dreams, the sound of passing cars. I clutched my blanket, my nails digging deep into the synthetic velvet. Why must the long moments ache and the short ones thunder? I picked at the fake fibers. It was too dark for specifics, but I woke the next morning to find that Hello Kitty’s fur had gotten a bit patchy. She's been perfect since 1974; it was a long due development. I tipped my head back, hoping to see stars. That night there were none. Time is a cheaply made blanket: easily scarible and crumbling under its empty sense of softness.