“Things change. People don’t.” That was all that could clearly be gathered from the cacophony that urgently coaxed me to awaken. Half asleep. Mostly awake. I listened for familiar sights, and looked for comforting sounds in hopes of finding a way out of the aurora catatonia that, time and time again, held me hostage. There, what seemed like eons, truly only spanned a few moments in time. Lifetimes of misguided frustration passed before me, jumping randomly from scene to scene. It taunted with a bittersweet serenade that melodiously rose on a fallacy and painfully fell upon disenchanting truths, living anew only to reprise its self as before.  Faintly, somewhere in the distance a jarringly beautiful staccato cry from a soloing jazz trumpet could be heard. Constantly it flirted with tones teetering on the brink of disaster, as its desperate, frantic cries ebbed and flowed into distinction. Each deliberate discombobulated punch of the horn ignited a painstakingly passionate almost haphazard inferno of emotion while starkly discordant accompanying sounds asynchronously fluttered about the intensifying chaos with a nearly epileptic kind of grace. One had to be paying especially careful attention in order to notice the moment that the rising catastrophe of song guilefully reprised its once forsaken beauty. But that moment, that exotic erotic exhibition of something so real and genuine, so commonplace, didn’t last long. In fact it never did. By and by, after the short procession for the fundamental melody, the mystical plumage of the truest siren song disappeared into the growing nest of calamity and rising flames. But never before first surrendering the sweetest smelling offering, as if the sacrifice of its own person weren’t enough. And there it danced about the sphere of the earth in a way that was so tribal, so visceral, so genuine, so real, none could replicate its beauty, and this was why they, those foolish creatures, denounced its spirit. It was hated for what it was, feared even, and that was why it had to die each day. Yet each passing away, each death, each ceremonious farce marked the condemnation for what it really was: demise. Not the demise of what one would normally think, but rather as a sort of cunning misunderstanding for what had actually passed, happened, and ultimately occurred. For the night was nothing to fear, but the creatures had been taught to fear it. So they feared it, and they feared their demise.