It’s true, of course.

The night comes gently, falling from the sky like a secret love note, folded in half and roughed at its edges from the wind.

Slowly, the household folds in on itself, stack of cards, everyone surrendering to the familiar enclosure of their beds, the somnolent smell of their sheets.

Insomniac, you, you of burned eyes, and caffeine blood, and weighted bones, you unfold the love note, scrawled ink, penned by beloved’s hand, an anxious beating to your heart.

The possibilities stretch endless, gravel road to the sea. You’ve been meaning to paint, and finish that movie, and master that subject, and reread Gone with the Wind, and apply for fall internships, and book a flight for your trip in October, and do some push-ups and exfoliate your sun burned, freckled skin.

Insomniac, you, you captive of coffee and of the clock, you wanderer of memory lanes and ash- grey city streets stamped with moonlight. The night gives you chances and platitudes and love sonnets. Summer lays sprawled hot in your belly and salty on your tongue. You let the moments flow like sand through your fingers, the night slowly leaving, hurt by your indifference.

I was always a bit frightened of time, and all the things that it robs from us. And all the ways that we let it. Sunrise seizes us captive too, in resplendent gold and glory, casts a sky splashed so with color, and birds heralding the new day.

I only wish I learnt the secret, enchanted slumber of the masses. I walk the streets of morning, sullen, hair wild, charlatan among early risers. Its stirring hints of some beginning; brings night’s possibilities to the End.

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