“Hush little baby; don’t say a word.”

Moonlight is cold, silver fire through blue night; it slices in from curtains and windowshades, leaving frigid gashes on the walls and smooth, polished puddles of ice on the floor. It washes the softness and leaves things bare and vulnerable, stark and sharp in contrast.

Babies shouldn’t cry so.

“Well I’ll sing you a lullaby.”

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