I love this time of year.
It's one-thirty in the morning, and the air smells all the sweeter.
It's as though the air itself has aged like a fine whine over the course of the day.
Now that it is over, it is just right.
The air has no temperature.
It is zero.
Not hot, nor cold.
The air is in between warm and cool.
It is nothing.
I love this time of year.
It's one-thirty-five.
The only sound to be heard is the soft billowing that the electric fan make as it's white leaves rotate in the box on my windowsill and I think...
If there is Heaven on Earth, it is not a where, it is a when.
Heaven on Earth is that time of year, where everything is zero.
Everything is right inbetween one and the other.
Heaven is when everything is nothing.
The air is not hot, nor cold.
The ground is not firm, nor soft.
The wind is not stale, or new.
The world outside is just starting to grow from the dead.
It is not Winter, nor Spring.
It is not late, or early.
No one is gone, they just aren't with you.
Your things are not missing, they're just not by your side.
Everything I as it should be, just like tonight.
When I die, if I should wander into paradise, I think it might look something just like this.
There is only me with me, and I love it.
It's 1:40 AM, and I'm falling asleep in my paradise between.