The city barely sleeps.
Neither does it dream; it has nourishment enough from the broken dreams of those who spend their lives fluttering like moths, beating fragile dusty wings against an unattainable light.
Occasionally it dozes fitfully towards dawn, but seldom more than that. The streetlights may dim a fraction, the drumming of tyres on tarmac may fade to a soporific hum, yet tranquility is rare.
So eventually my children will return home, to be restored by silence, stillness, darkness, peace.
They will know where to find me when the time for them is right. I can wait.
As the lockdown continues, the list of chores seem to grow daily. When did I ever find time to have a life outside the home? Thanks to Friday Fictioneers and Rochelle for this little foray each week outside the confines of our ever-cleaner, ever more beautifully maintained home.