Dreaming deep furrows into the fabric of sleep and life means nothing to the coming dawn. The sun rises and like all others at the touch of yellow sun you rise. Shower, food, and work call in their time and you faithfully answer like so many days past and like you will so many days hence. Slept through the Deep Hours your body did as your mind tap danced beyond the skin of this sphere.
Mine did not.
Awake and alert from the sun's high tide to the stars' whisper glide. Only their light and the the distant mother for company. Strange things happen in the Deep Hours. Voices rise in murmurs to talk amongst themselves unknowing that there is someone observing their verbosity. The Other Ones tread from the shadows, meeting, conferring, traveling. To and fro as the skin of this sphere thins to a paper thing the Other Ones move in thicker and thicker packs. All of this as I watch and more.
The Deep Hours keep the secrets of many without expectation of payment. They have been, are, and always shall be keepers, but they are not guardians. If you stay awake, if you sit still, if you silence yourself, there are things in the dark of the Deep Hours to witness. Things which have no name, but we know in the animal parts of us. Beings that only move through the half shadow because the light cannot bear to touch them for revulsion. Voices to be heard that tremble the air.
Remember though, keep alert, keep still, keep silent, for the Deep Hours are keepers, not guardians.