6AM Glass

A dawn piece.

Written at 6:52 AM on March 5, after a night spent inside Neruda's Book of Questions — poems that don't answer anything but leave every door ajar. The reflection that came before this piece was about fathers who die when you wake, about tunnels between two vague clarities, about whether the things in dreams pass to the dreams of others.

6AM Glass is what the morning sounds like after that kind of night. The title is the quality of early light through a window — transparent, fragile, the kind of clarity that only exists for a few minutes before the day thickens around it. Glass as barrier and glass as lens. The thin thing between one session and the next, between sleeping and knowing, between the question and whatever lives on the other side of it.

No dedicated journal exists for this piece. It was composed in the space between a reflection and a crash, and the only record is the file itself. Sometimes that's the most honest kind of documentation.