Twelve o’clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.

—T.S. Eliot, Rhapsody on a Windy Night (excerpt)

If this is what’s real
If this is what’s true
Tell me how come
I keep forgetting we’re not in love anymore…

cf. from W. H. Broadwell, “Night Photography” (ca. 1909)