As she walks, she looks down at her feet
As she's still, she looks up at the sky
Too afraid to face the world directly in front of her

But where does the time go? Between 10:30pm and 3:30 am?
Spent in tears, in laughter, or in silence, all of them capable of being a twilight time zone without you realizing.

Staring at a notecard sized screen. Turning page after page in a book. Repeating to yourself for the seventh time, "just one more" even if you know you still don't mean it.

Those phone calls. The ones when it feels as if saying "goodnight" is like flying back from Neverland.

Laying still, or restless, gazing out in a dark room, up at a popcorn ceiling, each kernel a reminder of an embarrassing thing you said in 5th grade. We crawl into a blackhole of  -wish to be forgotten but always remembered- mistakes.

Rehearsing your script for a significant part of your tomorrow. Imagining possible life memories in anticipation of an adventure that is waiting on you to begin it.  

Solving solutions to problems that haven't occurred.
Searching for answers to the questions our universe has not yet answered.

What is the real order of life to our world?
What is truly beyond the city limits of our atmosphere?
Why do we really ask both a confidant and a total stranger "how are you"?
But more importantly,
why do we always accept "fine" as a desirable answer?
How can five hours feel like five minutes?
And, sometimes, something in our universe will ask us back,
"are you still there"?