10pm. Me and the waxing moon. Incandescent yet out of view. Leaning across the windowsill, watching the day turn history, memory. Like so many before. And searching for a word for the desire to have a cigarette even having none around, haven't had so in ages. Listening to the street instead, to what-could-be-voices whispering fragmented stories, anticipating more confusing dreams. Me and the waxing moon.