Every Man Has an Island

I had a dream last night in which I rose from bed at some queer hour. I marched outside like a zombie to pee off the edge of lawn and stared out over the city lights below. To the east the moon cast a soft glow on the water of the distant bay. To the west at even further scope, snow capped peaks radiated from dark blue phosphor. North held no perceived wonder and behind the mountain somewhere to my south I knew the Southern Cross lay pinned to the night sky. The utter stillness caused my crown to buzz like a transistor and in all this dream I soon declared myself, King of Aotearoa.