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A bat hangs from a chandelier, wings held wide. A ship sails a high shelf. A painting gushes ocean froth. An orca guards bound literature. Cut geodes rest in the windowsill.

You should see this place at midnight. The deep turquoise waves come to life, surging over the rocks left by the hills beyond. Tiny sailors in the rigging are set to task, preparing for a reality that will never come. Sirens sound in the conch shell, like genie in a jar. The bat wings around the house in shadowy darkness, chirping in a tone too high for the ear. Geodes keep guard at the entrance to the soul.

I used to be terrified of midnight. I was afraid if I stayed up until that dread hour, the whole night would pass without sleep. Now the night is full of jewels for me. I steal a tome or two from the orca and read the night away. I listen to the fan turn round and round and round until I’m lost to the waking world. I drift in and out of dreams.

Meanwhile, the world whirs away, turning on its axis. Midnight comes and goes. There’s a world alive for those who care to venture out into the living room.

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