This place, this time, when most people sleep, is the time that they come. Those little fuels and fires, that torment and make restless souls stir. In daylight they hide, pushed down by sun and mundane. In the quiet dark, they creep in and whisper in minds. Whisper Whisper Whisper They whisper in your mind. Melancholia? Ennui? Depression? Labels matter not. This place, this moment, feels the same, yet changing, rolling forward. Those little tugs and torments, pulling and pushing, jostling your mind. Here now, then there This person, that person A word, a phrase, an exclamation It matters not, they'll all find you.