As the moon sleeps silently in the wake of the morning's sun, I find myself walking the canopied sidewalks of hushed streets and fallen dreams. The trees whisper a language of comfort and hope, while the storm that's brewing strikes shallow lightening bolts beneath my feet.

"Hang yourself out to dry, with the realization that what you'll get in return is simply the aftermath of this storm that's settling at your feet: tampered and torn with nothing to show for it. You'll ruffle your leaves and break your branches with the hope that someone will be there to pick up the mess. What you'll soon realize is that you're the only one that will be there in the end. you'll slowly pick up the pieces that have fallen somewhere in the wreckage."

So when the sun rises and the moon's found his way behind the mess we call a storm, I hope the debris is manageable. I hope it's forgotten.