Somewhere on the other side of the world,

he acknowledges the waning stars

with a casual wave of a tired hand

through the only unbroken window on his street.

His focus now returns to the words scrawled

in jagged spiral patterns around his arm—

images from three-nineteen a.m.—born of

caffeine nerves and the muffled resonance

of a pained creature shrieking

inside his skull.