When the clock strikes midnight, there is only dead silence. Besides the bells that toll loudly, a total of twelve rings sound. Leaving nothing but their hollow echoes behind them.
When the clock strikes midnight, nothing is in sight. Only the black of night. The shimmering stars, illuminating the buildings below the skies. The windows reflecting every image that it can behold.
When the clock strikes midnight, there are no feelings felt. Only the pillows evolve to the shape of a face. The sound of a breath breaks the silence of the night. The small whisper of a voice from a simple dream.
When the clock strikes midnight, there are no senses, there is absolute purity, peace, composure.