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.