It’s night and I don’t feel like sleeping. My eyes tell me I’m tired, and my muscles emphasize the point. My cat is asleep under my bed, huddled behind the skirt, waiting for me to give her the chair. A night show is playing on the Aborigal Peoples Television Network, some small budgeted production hosted by a phony man with an imperative voice. The current act, a group of three women with banshee-like voices, bang on the simple drums they hold as they sing quick moving melodic lines. My room glows blue from a single Candela perched atop my desk.

I’m in an odd mood. Not quite content, not quite lonely. I try to remain stoic nevertheless. Sometimes it feels as if the night is the only thing that accepts, the only thing that understands. Can I express my mind to you, the silent orator?

Perhaps I’ll fall asleep to some Portishead, a remnant of some pleasant memories.

Unfamiliar pillows with unfamiliar sheets.