Something about this night is melancholic. It feels like a thirst, of something that never went down my throat. It feels like missing a place that I never visited. This night makes me yearn for something that never took place, but my imagination engraved it deep in my consciousness, which now feels more like a memory than a dream.
This night is fickle. It whirrs like a broken projector, throwing out random images, which feel like were once being played on the curtains of sight. But I am not sure if they did. It must be the night, blurring the wisp of the edge between what I never saw but I wished I did, and what I saw but doesn’t matter if I did.
This night is quiet. It has left the noise of the scribble, the rough sound of the nib of my pen, scraping over the coarse paper to be the music of my choice. It seems to be the only music that can soothe my heart tonight.
This night is alive, and I have caught its fancy.
So, I know. It is going to be a long night.
ABSINRAW 