Late at night or in the ungodly desolate hours of the morning, the writers come out to play. The insomniacs stop staring at the ceiling, and the depressed dry their eyes.

Late at night or in the ungodly desolate hours of the morning, we write away our happiness, our joy our sorrows, our pain and our emptiness. We write away our illnesses, briefly taking back our voices from them.

Late at night or in the ungodly hours of the morning, us sleep deprived lot fill pages upon pages with our words. Some burn them, some keep them, but we all write them. We are the closest we are ever to be to feeling alive.

Then we go back, back to being tired or sad, back to being heartbroken or empty.




Late at night or in the ungodly hours of the morning, the writers come out to play.