Into each similar scene.

Hints of an inverse constellation come about to surround, oppressive winking holes upon a thick whiteness, and tell you to take that flask for a walk into the deep night. Anywhere is surrounded by everywhere, so you sink on your back upon the pitch black of park grass. Fog mists the air above your brow and seeps into the creases of your knuckles. As you lie you feel your kneecaps pucker within your skin like the grass that you feel stiffen and frost around you. That sea and its noise surrounds to silence, but never quite for that long enough moment. But then you see the black skeletons of trees, their steady colour against the night's upward progress from lighted hues to blackened blue--skeletal stillness, and when that's all there is, that is all there is.