10pm. Lights out. No rain no stars few lights between here and the silhouettes of trees on the distant horizon. Trying to get hold of some air bearing the smell of the forest and the park, yet all this city night has in it is the scent of sleepy buildings and corroding railroads. Making dreams of what's at hand nevertheless, maybe it's as good as it gets.
10pm and on. Quiescing the noise, muting external sources. Dimming that last light remaining for today. Leaving behind some notes for tomorrow mornings self, unsure whether that scribble will manage to carry its meaning through the dark hours. Watching some drunk young dudes disappear in a car way below, and a student slightly the same age staring into his books, somewhere across the street. Different lives different dreams different ways to fill nights.
10pm. Wearing the night like a cape, hiding in the hood, invisible to what owns these hours. Sounds of dogs across the village, and of wild animals hiding where the fields end in forest. Scent of a fire that faded long ago, and a moment of serenity under the few stars that were spilled across thin clouds. Always at the edge of another day.
Close to 10pm, first time for this week. Uncounted hours, heavy load of thoughts, mental energy and focus running low again. Pursuing reasonably many things in parallel makes the hours feel much longer than they actually are. And at some point motion slows down, leaving behind a lot of question marks, a lot of half-baked scribble and very very little things to stand the test of time. (The art of knowing when to stop, when to take a break, when to get to sleep early. And the challenges of practising this.)