the optimist rises, sunlight lending its assistance with each shaft across the dim-lit room.
wearying, wearying, the pessimist falls into bed, some melancholy sweeping over like a wave of moonbeams now eclipsed.
what is the shape of between, the texture that inspires us to land on this melancholy?

circumstances rise
and fall
upon the aching bones of every traveler.

sleep overwhelms.
sleepyhead succumbs--
then watches in the wakeful hours of the night.