There is something to be said about being alone in the dark.
A sort of soft silence, when one rests on the floor. Mentally uncomfortable.
Eyes gaze to the ceiling and the mind as blank as the feeling of apathy which stands before.
There is something to be said about being desolate in the dark.
A sort of calm, when the same melancholy song plays in the ears.
Eyes squint, but never falter. The ears attentive to repetitive words, although never becoming completely clear.
A longing for companionship, but the same time the sad solitude is just so selfishly, sickenly sweet.
The pound of the drums in the ears.
The darkness before the eyes.
The realization of how late in the night one has reached.
Oh yes, oh yes indeed.
There is something to be said about being detached and floating in the dark.
A sort of morose addictive loneliness.
The stillness all around.
Falling in love with the sorrow.
Eyes stay drawn like light curtains, while the ears still listen deeply, never falling into the slumber that should be awaiting.