It is the sky we have seen all the days we have seen. It is always a little different. It is either calming, or the creator of anxiety, foreboding the day to come, the past that keeps you awake you beg to forget, turning at night hoping for a different morning. Yet it is, at night, and not in the morning. We hope that if only we can sleep at night the day will be different in the morning, much less the smoldering night. We cannot escape, like the scorching sun at night, the burn, the fear of the unknown, the unexplored territory. We know to fear ourselves for our ability to avoid a reckoning with the truth, a reckoning we can not run from in the searing burn of our night time terrors, our failure to think, to reason, and our willingness to be lazy and vote by our emotions, as if emotions build sky scrapers.