It’s the dead part of the nights that wear on my psyche. The fey, waning light after sunset and then the celebration of stars afterward provide a canvas for any number of funs or reflections. But the hours as the moon sinks and before predawn, when I am wakeful and everyone is abed, and funs and reflections have gone; it’s during those times I truly feel alone.
That burning ache drives me to seek companionship in something so lowly as my own word processor. And I stare at its blank nothingness and can only nod. It’s such a fitting reflection that I can’t mar its surface and I leave it alone.