Softness Of The Late Night Mind...

Softness Of The Late Night Mind... 

I've tried thousands of words to capture what this is.

Still these gentle fuzzy hours float like soap bubbles in a fading-to-indigo twilight sky,

Hiding behind stars and planets.

I wonder if the family Muse has dinner with my ghosts, laughing at my feeble attempts to understand emotional physics.

Is there an infinity of universes contained in a drying teardrop?

Are all the nebulae in the visible universe merely the echoes of exploded ancient dreams? What glorious ghosts they are!

If I should dream of flying through the end of everything, I want to see it all.

Softness and the blessed stillness of critical focus are gifts, the ones Prometheus was really paying for.

Paint the night with ideas; brush it softly with poetry, for the night is quiet and soft, rampant with hope and dreams. 

Sleep is a starship, deep in the indigo sky.

AquarianM

By:  Daniel A. Stafford

© 02/27/2026

Softness of the Late-Night Mind

The Fidgety Pen...

I use my fidget spinner to wind my watch.

No,
Not a Doc Brown contraption.

An old Seiko auto-winder,
Or maybe these days,
Auto-wonder,
But I digress.

It needs to be shaken,
Not stirred,
Twice a day,
Unless you want to stop time.

I time it,
Three fidget spins in the morning,
Thrice-spin before bed.

It occurs to me,
It takes some hand-eye coordination to get a good spin.

Maybe a little like a pen swooping cursive.

Ok,
It's not tight like THAT,
But still... Don't knock the spinner.

Maybe my writing poetry for the silent ethersphere is my way of spinning out my fidgets.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 05/28/2025