Maybe it'll be a better day tomorrow, a new honeycomb hive for all the bees, but if nuclear bombs aren't falling, I'll pass it off as joyless, just like all the rest, just another day-night in the sick-room watching the drowsy blue rainfall, the oily red puddles below the yellowed streetlamps casting strange reflections and poetic hues of burnt amber, more syrupy clots and cruel bloodred masks for the shivering asphalt, if you ever really look at it, you'll see black and remote galaxies and broken diamonds in the shape of teeth, they sparkle, they glisten and glitter and glow wildly at night.