It's been some hard days on my mind, feeling like it's raining all the time, or about to explode with so much confusion in its abode. 
In fact, it has been cold and rainy outside the window that I seldom open, I don't even know the scope of it being broken.
But through it all, on the background hidden, there's the glimpse of a small flame like from candle light and the warmth of a firebond, that whenever I risk to look better at it I feel it's like the incandescence of the sun burning through space itself.
If I'm ash, how can I burn; if I'm the blue-crow tattooed on my chest, how am I the phoenix?
I guess I'm just like the tired photograph of the night streetlights that we'll never see together.