Bright lights forecast the descent of a car down the driveway. Down it goes. Other lights there to guide the way of something that already has lights. No lights elsewhere except those given off by this house. For some reason the house across the way doesn't have any lights on; I guess they're away for the weekend, all of them. That's a big family. Didn't someone advise them when they got robbed to put a light in the house like we do? Ah well, for us it doesn't matter, because there's almost never a time here when everyone is asleep, and there's almost always someone here.
Sounds of beings that have managed to survive the intense onset of human civilization leak through the night. The silence tries to penetrate the noise but, no go. There's a revolution outside if you listen closely. Foxes and deers, frogs and crickets are all there, and of course the birds, but we always see birds anyway.
I get up, I go to wash my hands and look in the mirror, and I see my slight facial hair, unshaven. Wonder if anyone wants to touch it. Return and think. And type.
I use the drawers of the cabinet included in this desk as a footrest, one drawer for the foot to rest on and the drawer above to block my foot from falling into the drawer. I don't know why I do this. It's comfortable in an obsessive-compulsive sense.
The night goes on. Drones on, if you really don't like it. Peters on is more like it. Wait, what?
Meaning is lost in the confusion of the night; it evaporates, regenerates and presents itself as the morning dew on the flowers the next day. Sweeter than it was before.
The image is supposed to be vague in meaning, though the original intended meaning of "it" was "not being alone." Note the direction of the arrow.
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