at twelve minutes past midnight

This is the hour when all certainty fades, said Princess Haiku, and when sharp edges of meaning and reason soften. This darkest hour owns us, gathers us into soft arms of remembered dreams, fleeting glances and curved lips.

In the corner of the room the ghost of an ancient immortal haiku poet dips her pen into ink, contemplating eternity, while you and I having escaped the past, laugh until dawn.