Because night is an oscillation between the crass happiness that excites and the sidelong glimpses of lucidity that mortifies. Because coffee is a dialectical struggle of playful suggestion and the unspoken itch for desperate diversion. Because the midnight florist is a sole light in a corridor of florescent darkness. Whence a requiem for memory long dead is solicited. Whence the dust of aged shutters and paper-wrinkled skin come. Whence flowers are trafficked and to where flowers go to die.