Much later, and again in that familiar place, position: Backdoor, ash tree, gazing out into the dark that keeps the meadows covered. Random noises hint for small creatures making their way through the bushes and into temporary attention. Somewhere up there behind the houses, cars are speeding down the bypass street, taking a sharp turn, roaring engines, to disappear heading for the highway. Insects circling that dim lamp, then and now hitting its surface. Across the road, windowblings are being shut. Getting ready for the night, retreated to the inside. Sleep tight everyone wherever you are.
Closing in on 10pm once more. Of reading instead of writing, of not finding words or even languages. Images will have to do for the moment it seems. Wrapping up the day in the available light, having lukewarm showers in cold bathrooms, burning another incense and trying to track down some more errors before the night washes away the remainder of todays conscious thoughts. Somewhere in between sleepy and tired, perhaps. If there's a middle ground at all.