There’s something about writing at night.
Some sort of majesty.
It’s not the quiet that I love so much as the stillness.
Outside my walls it’s always a rush.
And I’m caught in it, you understand.
People misunderstand being a night owl.
People misunderstand a lot of things.
There’s such a majesty to the night.
To the dark.
I’d call it romantic, but you’d find that cliché.
And it is.
But still, the night is potential.
The clock of this world ceased ticking for the day.
And we get to run through the cogs.
You never know just how loud you are.
Just how much power you have.
Till you find yourself on an empty street full of sleeping people.
There’s freedom in the night.
The freedom undefined by what you are during the day.
We have no jobs, no roles in the night.
Every person is a danger, a stranger, and a wandering soul.
To see a man at night should elicit only one response.
What is his story?
So I write by the night.
I dream without sleep.
And I’d like to think I’m in good company.
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