They are there at the windows, desperate for attention. There is no noise beyond the sussuration of rain, the late summer heartbeat sound of crickets, engine noise of the air conditioners as if the building waits, growling in its sleep. Planes keep my clock, the trains have stopped running, the world is alive with the lack of people awake. These are *not* natural hours; no one is born to the moon, no one watches the streetlights dim into dawn because they always have. We learn diurnal rhythms then slip into night time for safety, out of fear, that we’re not artists unless we do…
I like to fight my body. Grumble against the nervous tics, hold off the desire to eat, piss, fuck, sleep. The lungs are trembling at the idea now, eyelids sagging low, yawns splitting the chapped lips but it’s delicious here, the illusion of true solitude, backed up by the lack of traffic, the dim, diffused light slouching into my apartment. The strange things that happen at night are a trick of the self, the waiting shapes outside the window, but oh their beauty, oh the indulgence of my oddities, forever and ever, salud, amor, milagro.
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