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3am.
Broken clocks can’t tell time.
Meaningless hands move through contrived seconds.
It is all a creation of the mind.

4am.
Father is dead.
Maybe he never existed.
No, not maybe. There is no father.

5am.
The sun returns in cycles.
No hands necessary.
Birds chirp as the horizon brightens

6am.
The worms have already eaten.
Early is relative to our needs.
We need more sunrises.

We need more…

© zaji, 2016