11pm and the effects of late hours. Dreams flooded by transparent squids in murky waters. By neon coloured lights tracing through thick fog at the heart of darkness between the days. By lost languages and words unspoken, unheard for aeons. (Meanwhile, someone is shouting in the backyards, what seems a wagonload of empty bottles is falling over and rolling apart, another voice from a balcony demands immediate silence, causing only laughter. The odd sensation of listening to one's pulse, after rudely being taken out of early sleep.)