It's warm when I seek the cold embrace of frost and midnight chill. I can only grace my blessings and praise the sheltered stars that through the open, narrow window, the winds buffet in the late twilight; I lie awake, armed and emboldened with nothing but sophistry and unneeded nor unwanted thoughts.

Pretense.

In the absence of light, short of this device I hold that which replaced the venerable pen and paper I seldom used; my senses honed into cruising, fleeting, unnerving, banally nonexistent creatures that swim across my view.

Randomly.

They make me shiver as they come across memories I'd rather not remember. Why can't I forget? Or better yet, why can I not slumber when I thought I loved it so? I should be drowning in sweet, beguiling dreams. ****** upon realities outside the realm of known truths or histories or possibilities. Drifting upon all genres imaginable.

Stories.

Experiences old and new. Perhaps a journey nobody ever knew nor envisioned. But nay. My eyes remain open. While my mind wanders this little room I've grown accustomed to.

Enclosed.

Should I wake tomorrow, and I hope I do, nothing would greet me but the sun and the heat on my face, notwithstanding, maybe a little morning dew. Hence, I wish my tomorrow self the best of luck as I bid adieu to the hours lost staring into empty, void space.

Good night to all but me.