Late at night.

Sometimes, when the world has gone to sleep, I stay up just to hear the silence of my house.

The foundation shifts and settles, the floors creak with the movement, yet no human sound taints the fleshy, deep, brooding night silence. I love the silence, listen to it press against the words I start to jot onto the pad by my bed. Words slowly evolve into sentences, and I’m sitting planning, plotting, while the world around me is disappearing into dreams.

Then they die away, and nothing happens.

I read them, blurrily, and they slide over the page. They mean little near midnight.