It is becoming the times when I can’t sleep. When words float in darkness and meet on a park bench next to an old man, thinking about his wife. She is dead and he is too. The city lights up and he wants to sing a song but the words aren’t there for him. They are floating. He is not. She is floating. He is not. He sees the song she used to sing and the way he would light up. She would light up. He does not. And the words are still floating. But he is not.