Night comes, a peaceful protest of the working class, during night shift, hands move in the darkness that has no end. Sleep is not stillness but a factory where words are melted and formed in secret furnaces. Dreams are made of broken kites to fly only to break up in pieces. My body comes in without my permission plumbers uncoupling pains from weary bones. The mind, that stubborn foreman, redraws the map redirects rivers where fears have dug up ditches. Each blink shuts the door for yesterday’s ghosts, each hour shakes off the wreckage of guilt. I am floating, comatose, throughout this shift’s haze a passenger of self, drifting and damaged. The morning comes—drags me from the depths, uncompleted, burning, and still aflame.