Nocturne: Editor's Note
During some of the shortest days of the year, most of us have no choice but to become civil with the night.
During some of the shortest days of the year, most of us have no choice but to become civil with the night.
One of the things I love about the view is the building across the street.
Our senses peak in the dark. Any breath, any sound, any aberration, are grounds for fear and suspicion.
“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.
No one rises at 5 a.m. without a groan-worthy reason. Here’s mine: prednisone makes me unable to fucking sleep.
I spent years associating the sunrise birdsong to my basic failure to uphold a bedtime.
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.
At night, stripped of everything but its salty residue in the air, the sea looks different.