It is 4a.m.
I peer down at Christmas lights strung across dusty anthills.
6 stories and 1 roof high,
my metaphorical hand grasps the closest metaphorical hand;
my knees are pressed up against backs for warmth.
A universe of birth and death opens up to us from the heavens,
and we laugh out of strained curiosity and contained excitement,
because this morning we were unsure of what it felt like to be human.
Now, we understand that the night chill is a reminder of our past,
and, much like the tide, it comes and goes.
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