10pm and not much further. Slightly detached, slightly dissociated, trying to let these hours float while day's but a memory already and sleep still as unreal and elusive as any dream to maybe follow. Steps echoing through the narrow street but these feet seem light and on a walk not kept down too much by any invisible burden. Empty bus stop, flickering street lights, a collection of Christmas candeliers in a window over there. Shadowplay. Stories lost, stories found. And the fabric of dreams made of both. (Have a restful night wherever you are.)
Closing in on 11pm. Heavy eyelids. Small pupils. Narrow thoughts. Attention on essential needs, with just a vague idea which that might be right now. The street, ignoring late hours, is waking to new life, people flood out of a crowded bus, piano music echoing in the yards. Words sung in Spanish. Or something like that. Watching reality through closed windows and a mental veil that won't lift anymore today. Have a recovering night wherever you are.
Viel später: Flüchtiges Navigieren durch offene Tickets und neue Kommentare. Dem Berg beim Wachsen zusehen. Wiederaufnahme des Kontaktes mit dem anderen Ende des Tages, um den Kurs zwischen den Punkten noch einmal nachzuvollziehen. Kühle, archaische Dunkelheit des Gartens klebt an Haaren, Geist, Seele. Ein Espresso aus der alten Kanne, zur Unzeit, während ringsum die Lichter der Balkone nach und nach gelöscht werden. (Und sich selbst von den Vorzügen früheren Schlafes überzeugen wollen. Mit mäßigem Erfolg. Wie so immer in solchen Gesprächen. Mond hinter Dunst. Der Wind schweigt.)
10pm and on. Strong wind on the roofs again. Sounds of churchbells, some neighbours rushing to get the late mass. Listening to the music that went through all the night so far. Pondering continuity, tradition, rituals, the strength of things dear to us and the often discomforting weight of changes ... even good ones.
10pm. Slowed down. Watching reflections of traffic lights on wet crossroads. Ending the evening just like the morning started: In a bathroom, dimly lit. Yawning. And trying to avoid eye contact with that mirror self. (Fixed temporal join points woven into the fabric of the week. And fixed rituals revolving around them.)