Dawn is a friend of the muses, even if they aren't awake to appreciate it.

A fickle lover, sleep takes us as it will, when it wants, and how. Sensing her desperate need, however, it draws Corrie deeply into its embrace, somewhere between her tears and terror.

Then again, that's how the most successful predators work, she thinks ruefully. We stumble into their traps and do their work for them while we're busy getting on with the business of living.

A tire spins aimlessly, being pulled a different direction by forces larger and stronger and with little consideration of its wasted effort. Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you can't leave the road you're on.

The syrup of lilies hangs thick and sweet in the air, its cloying scent the traditional mask of death and rebirth: ashes and incense, rain and dirt, and something like rosin. It's the scent Hector associates with God. The scent of heavenly things.

If there's a password needed at the gates of heaven, only Latin will unlock it, he thinks.

People say the darkness is where secrets are best hidden. Night time brings clarity and focus to owls, even if the aperture of this vision comes with a stigma.