This is a warm month. I am fed up of these travels from ones to thirties. I long for a distant land without a March, or a February. On the sill of the open window, for some fresh air, I sit. Mirror reflects the blind glow of my moonlight plated chrome face. The breeze that goes past without ever looking back plunges a question into my skull, "Did you wrong, oh poet?" Blooming a comforting dawn in my troubled silly mind, a smile disappears from my lips. This night comes with the death of memories. But I know, it will not last long, for I have to be alive again. In my sleep I realise that I am, strangely, none to myself.