Midnight Meditation

The fan was throwing drafts of air my way that carried a pleasant-but-sudden blast of cold on them. Summer nights were like that, sitting alone, sitting up long past night-time. Too hot and too cold. Not cold enough to bundle up, yet without a quilt I felt exposed and icy. My blood is too hot- no, wait, it's too cold- for this, I would say. It's time to sleep-no, I won't sleep, but I will dream. Dreams of paradise, of heaven, of things with no name or shape, of fear and of hope; I saw them all. My thoughts were with the moon and the stars. They were icicles and raindrops of thoughts and expressions, star-dust falling backward to the heavens (or is that called flying?). Warm because of the season. Cold because I could feel the moon's dark desert. Little prayers, little hopes and wishes- did the angels hear them? Did the star-dust bring them back my small piece of a soul?