Three in the morning, thought Charles Halloway, seated on the edge of the bed. Why did the train come at that hour?
For, he thought, it’s a special hour. Women never wake then, do they? They sleep the sleep of babies and children. But men in middle age? They know that hour well. Oh God, midnight’s not bad, you wake and go back to sleep, one or two’s not bad, you toss but sleep again. Five or six in the morning, there’s hope, for dawn’s just under the horizon. But three, now, Christ, three A.M.! doctors say the body’s at low tide then. The soul is out. The blood moves slow. You’re the nearest to dead you’ll ever be save dying. Sleep is a patch of death, but three in the morn, full wide-eyed staring, is living death! You dream with your eyes open. God, if you had strength to rouse up, you’d slaughter your half-dreams with buckshot! But no, you lie pinned to a deep well-bottom that’s turned dry. The moon rolls by to look at you down there, with its idiot face. It’s a long way back to sunset, a far way on to dawn, so you summon all the fool things of your life, the stupid lovely things done with people known so very well who are now so very dead — and wasn’t it true, had he read it somewhere, more people in hospitals die at 3 A.M. than at any other time…?

Ray Bradbury
Something Wicked this Way Comes

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