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As the spirit of Lazarus, I animate. Reanimate, from a bizarre slumber to a palpitate night air. Gulf winds intrusively herding heavy clouds like spirit cattle, bearing arcane riders of esoteric threat. Even the paunchy feline whom lays upon my window sill like a tapestry, raises his head in diagnostic concern. Search the meager commorancy. Search the garden. Search the street. Search the air I breathe. Search the sky. Question the felines. Interrogate my own consciousness like a paranoid constable, inquiring of a delict event to come, or that hath already come. No evidence. Only my own spent cigarette that nursed my uneasiness and succored this dark morning probe of delirium and aberration. And now, with one final breath, cessation. Quiescence.