Things fall slower at three a.m., of this I am quite certain. When the air is cool and the sky is stuck between getting darker and getting lighter, an aged kitchen chair leaping from a second story window into the street falls gracefully, quietly, slowly -- fracturing and splintering into a million exquisite pieces, each different from the other.
Tucked neatly underneath the the window from whence the chair flew, five sit on the front porch of the house. Stories and sly eyes and smoke between us, we are a collective prime number in the early hours of the city. The street wanderer plays guitar -- a piece of broken pipe sliding through the blues of his Georgia soul. He's not good and it's not beautiful, but that's okay.
Our ribs and voices melt into one another, colliding and collapsing into something comfortable. The porch is our whole world. Our everything, ourselves. The quiet of the night protects us from the rising sun and saves us from the close-drawing day.
It's time to sleep and find sweet dreams when we get there.
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