During some of the shortest days of the year, most of us have no choice but to become civil with the night.
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One of the things I love about the view is the building across the street.
i am climbing and it is dark
Our senses peak in the dark. Any breath, any sound, any aberration, are grounds for fear and suspicion.
No one rises at 5 a.m. without a groan-worthy reason. Here’s mine: prednisone makes me unable to fucking sleep.
One is the loneliest number.
“For a long time, I went to bed early,” begins the first page of Marcel Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu (In Search of Lost Time), written in exquisitely-formed cursive by an unknown reader, whose second-hand folio I found for two dollars at a used book sale.
We drove straight into the storm. Rain pelted against our windshield, the classic rock playing from the car’s speakers fighting to be heard over the sound of the wind outside.
I spent years associating the sunrise birdsong to my basic failure to uphold a bedtime.
Nothing is fully familiar. Even the rooms I rest in feel somewhat foreign.
That evening, Rotterdam held its breath for us.
I am still home but it feels far from it. The space isn’t yet devoid of voices but it feels so empty.
For many, the night is a time of escape and peace, but for the majority of my life, it’s been one of my worst enemies.
I wonder if it feels so good to watch strangers because they’re just postcards to me — maybe I simply see in them what I would see in myself if I ever turned toward my own reflection in the window.
I only get vulnerable halfway through the night
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