The Blue Hour

Outside the window, it was the blue hour. 

Sometimes when I walk down the road in the evening, the world goes fuzzy at the edges. Like a carefully controlled hallucination just beginning to break apart. 

How is it that I am here in this place? In those moments, it feels like the real me is somewhere else. 

9 crows roost in the sycamore tree. I don't know what it means, only that it makes me shiver. 

My tarot cards show nothing but swords and empty cups.