One hundred and eighty minutes past midnight
A time where silence rules over the darkened world
Only the dim light of the moon creates the looming, spindly shadows
I wonder if they're true, those old fables and stories shared solely for the purpose of frightening the youth into submission
Ears are buzzing, picking up the slightest impurities in the shock-still atmosphere
Skin is prickling with the feeling of hidden eyes submerged within the blackness that surrounds
Their howling cry is heard in the movement of the trees and the crackling of the leaves
Saturated clouds conceal the lunar luminescence
It's 3 A.M.
