The clock has been too soon to strike witching hour, it’s that time of the night where we wish to exposure and bare our souls to whoever is available to listen, yet I curl, into the most protective position I can find, My soul needs protection, I need protection, and from that sorrow salt is born. Almost therapeutically cleansing my soul. And even if my biological anatomy is ridding me from sorrow and all its traces, the scars of this run deep. An unseen wound on my soul. It speaks to me, in its fragile broken voice, from the depths of my mind, giving birth to doubt and despair. They befriend my unconscious, tormenting me slowly. The voice of reason, gone. And by now it is way pass the witching hour, with not a soul in sight, everyone must be sleeping soundly by now, yet you left me awake.