Sometimes, the lamp on my desk remains to be the only one on. In the house, in the neighborhood, in the whole city, in the world. The only sound I hear is the light breathing coming from beneath the warm bed covers, the soft whirling of my computer, and the sprinklers going off at 2 a.m.
Sometimes, it is because I have something on my mind that stops me from finding comfort by closing my eyes. Often times it is because I am too stubborn to sleep - tricking myself into thinking the night is mine, the night is to achieve, the night is to love and think of mad things, write mad things and drink, drink, drink.
Sometimes, I just want to sit and stare. Seeing nothing, feeling nothing, thinking nothing.
Sometimes, often times, the night is friendly and quiet. It is not lonesome. It is peaceful.
It is me.