After dusk, after hours. The songs of the crows disappeared in unknown distances. Same as the wind. Quiet shadows of trees between houses and streets and the river and its meadows. Neighbours engaged in conversations on the balcony, an indifferent dog sleeping under that small table, candle flickering as if it was to prevent dark fully on its own. Striving to remember how the morning started but not getting hold of these thoughts anymore. Maybe there's goodness in this kind of forgetting, too. Have a soft night wherever you are.
Hours later and still not completely sure of the day. A wall of books, an endless sky, the sound of a bus and doors opening, closing, without getting people anywhere. Bats on erratic, random routes. A few birds. A phone ringing for way too many times. E-mail notifications, appointments set appointments missed and a long weekend fades into past. Turning the page again, but devoid of real poetry today. Have a soft night wherever you are.
The evening, kitchen edition. There's a similarity between beer and bread and somehow a strange nostalgia in both that predates industrial centuries and makes one ponder alternative styles of living and false perspectives on old crafts that work way different in these ages. (A day ending in thoughts same as pointless as the ones it used to start in. Meanwhile, city's about to get ready for this night and everything it might offer and in few cases this seems about anything but sleep. Be safe wherever you are and whatever you're into, heading for the new morning.)
Much later again. A sound of rain behind closed windowblinds but unsure whether that's for real or just an early dream. Trying to fix things that are subtly broken. To some extent, still trying to even figure out how exactly the breakage looks like. Fast forward a few days, welcome to the old new flow. The code the data the somewhat tired evenings. Have a soft night wherever you are.
After all: Letting pass a day of rain and sun gambling without either one really winning. Trying and struggling to brush off the greasy dust of the hours. Once again, involved into strong disputes with various inner voices, again without either one really winning or making a better point. The model doesn't know any better than echoing the loudest arguments, and maybe that's part of the very issue. (Still about to step out of the flow. Wondering whether that border of being tired enough to sleep has already been crossed again. Have a soft night wherever you are.)