Mother carries little green Jack outside, where the afternoon sky looks like white fur drenched in tar, then rinsed half-heartedly.

 He fits easily into Mother's hands (see, he's scarcely larger than an apple). Mother talked about apples once. She also spoke tales of dolphins, magpies, and trees outside guarded vaults. “Trees weren't forbidden then,” she had whispered, slipping into her white coat before administering some glowing medicinal syrups to Jack. She vowed he'll bring the world back to life someday. 

...

Sleep is distant. Frozen with coffee. Sundered by my own fingers, beckoning words to the computer screen. My eyes stay awake, whilst sleep paints darkness on the skin underneath them. Midnight dwells on the strand of honey hanging between the long and short hands of the clock. Then sleeping, or its silhouette, is someplace else. Maybe in sunrise. Maybe in the empty cup of coffee. Or maybe, sleep is just asleep right now.

and the moon was a sleepless photographer

Refuge is the song I want to listen to
 in a room full of pens and paper
when the gears in my head turn against one another
 and the trains don’t stop for a lost passenger