The midnight oil always burns off just before the sunbeams begin to show above the ground. today their first hints refract through all of the ice on the sidewalks and trees, momentarily turning this emptiest of hours into an unreal glass sculpture.
i stand on the roof of my building above this beautiful, horrifying domain, face-to-face with my heartless adversary, whose relentless whispers tempt me to abandon all of this and taunt me with visions of peaceful sleep if only i would just drop my burdens.
our showdown at dawn would be more becoming of the wild-west roots of my native city than the quiet, pastoral hills of new england: i imagine a tumbleweed rolling by, set to a desolate harmonica. dust whips the eyes of the frightened passerby, children hide in the skirts of the women. a man frowns from the creaking doors of the saloon.
the pistols are heavy on my hips; my hands float above their holsters. then the first light of day touches my boot, and i DRAW