There is an odd sort of in-betweenness to be found at four in the morning. Three in the morning is very late, Five is very early, but four, four is both, neither. It brings with it a stillness, a silence that is more than simple quiet, it becomes a cessation of time. Four in the morning doesn’t exist until you find yourself there, sitting in the Quietus of a liminal space, where it feels like you could fall out of your world into another, where, for a moment, it feels like maybe you have. It’s too quiet outside, and if you spend too long thinking about it, the quiet seems to leak in, making you part of it. It lasts for just long enough to start to get used to it before the clock rolls over and the real world reasserts itself, leaving you wondering if what you felt was real after all, or just a hallucination born of exhaustion. In hindsight, you can’t decide if you wish it was real or wish it wasn’t.