From afar it appears I have dwelled on the darkest night of the year hitherto. The moon shines cleanly, stained of milk and ricochets from the farthest heavens. Tonight is a beautiful night with creativity at its loudest, and the artist awakes. It appears this artist is half human half owl as he sleeps throughout the day and awakes throughout the night- missing the most important meal of the cycle. He is ready to paint and every day wishes to create an orgasm of imagination. The stars and the moon are his surplus of daily vitamin c, and the quiet air of the night whispers inspiration into his ears. He picks up his book and begins to write for the first time, thinking of only the most beautiful, most extravagant experience. He looks for the next love that will capture the reader's heart, or perhaps the next murder that will keep ones toes on guard. As the night gets darker and darker and he becomes lonelier and lonelier- as the final human-owl hybrids rest for the next night, our artist awaits for sunlight. The sun is the moon to him, and he will slumber for the earliest portion of it, leaving the orange day for the pleasures of his procrastinations and forgetful research. Throughout this yellow morning that has yet to come upon, he will dream of vast islands far off near the Mediterranean sea, near the old world. He will dream of walking alongside Caesar, along the streets of Constantinople, through the streets walked by the prideful and ill-lead Teuton that destroyed their brethren, and across a bridge that stretches from earth to the gates of Neptune, and even along the west edges of the pacific sea and its islands, he will dream. He will dream of conquering the world in a way history has never seen, with his feet. He will own with his eyes and memory, the paintings of complicated artists about complicated women- or men if it is, and he will conquest with a blade of cedar filled of led. Now the artist will sleep, and dream, and perhaps reality will approve of his will of conquer.