9pm and on. Surprising how much light this nights darkness can hold. The clouds are ghosts and spirits and sheep and wolves are yesterday and tomorrow and something somewhere in between. Windows to a narrow world. Watching and cautiously taking note of whatever floats by. (An idea of spring. Distant music and the evening people gathering in the shady corners of parking lots. Breathing the air of that city cooling down after the day.)
10pm and on again, already. Challenging oneself by attempting to keep a textual flow in messages, ending paragraphs in a way that matches how they started. Trivial tasks turn somewhat difficult reaching a certain level of sleepiness. Maybe there's a hint to take from that. (Or maybe not, who knows. Watching the sky instead to refocus. Tales and stories of distant stars.)
Viel später, irgendwie zeitlos. Auf dem harten Boden liegen, noch einmal kurz vor dem Schlaf. Ungelesene Bücher unter, unerdachte im Kopf. Die Heizung rumpelt, in der Straße bellen Hunde, klingen eher fröhlich als wütend. Musik von gegenüber, dazwischen klingelt ein Telefon und für den Augenblick ist die Nähe der Geräusche der Stadt wieder schön wahrzunehmen. Kleine Augen vom Tag, genug Müdigkeit mitgenommen, und heute fehlt es nicht an Sternen.
Early evening. A dense layer of high clouds. Strong wind, snow then and now. The grey in the day turning blue with night closing in. // 366skies
Post 11pm. The quietness of the hills traded for the quietness of backyards of a random Saturday evening. Listening to the last of todays untold stories, inventing endings that haven't been thought of before. A winter night dreaming of bats and bright moons, with frozen darkness as an enduring companion in everything.
Night. Smooth darkness just slightly disturbed by city lights. And still there's always more than meets the immediate eye. // 366skies
10pm and on. The flickering of the light. The warmth of late rooms, once determined to keep the windy night out. Mental movies, actual sequences of frames on too tiny screens, opposing the huge TV set that makes no exception in also flooding this very days late hours with strong colours just across the street. Stories to tell, stories to hide, and volumes written from stories that never happened to someone.
10pm and on. Flashing lights, warm surroundings. Handling fragments, tempted to let go of what's left unfinished for months. In the end, the desire to keep things around wins: Entering archiving mode, trying to at least keep track and maybe find a way back to that one day. (Focus. Not always a bad thing, even though sometimes tiring if clinging to all day.)