12:00

In the sights of slumber, "it": the disparate feeling that embraces every date by it's half; is nothing but a vague turmoil that once, in the far past, or perhaps in the far future, was at ease.

Some feel it as boredom. Others call it "temporary".
Nobody denies it.

At 12:00 time kills. At 12:00 it's time to kill.