And so another night passes with faint dexterity—austere curtains howling against the window grills.

Kyungsoo fists the bedsheets into crumpled cloth. His fingers tremble under the cold and his nails pierce the flesh of his palm.

Why he constantly dreams the unfurling nightmares, he would never know.

Because no matter how hard he tries, Kyungsoo’s life only seems delicate in the oppression of morning—vicious and numb in the fissure of night.

He sinks into his soul, thousands of constellations captured in a web of fear versus humanity.

The darkness is overwhelmed with words, as Kyungsoo fiddles desperately with the corners of his pillow. He tosses and turns and tosses and turns—gets up to the hollow of trees swaying and a blinding thunderstorm—then tosses and turns again.

But his time is wasted because he eventually settles for a cup of tea—and a long, meaningless telephone conversation with Jongin.

Why Jongin would wake up in the middle of the night (morning) to answer his calls, Kyungsoo would never know.