It's after midnight and I've just stepped back inside from having a delicious shot of Laphroaig Quarter Cask at a soothing concert of unseen crickets conducted, it seemed, by a bat that whirred softly back and forth through the trees across the way.
The humans I live with are asleep. The dogs are asleep. The cat is asleep. The squatter mice in the ceiling are asleep. It's just me, the crickets, the bats, and now Madeleine Peyroux awake, blurring ever so slowly into tomorrow, our edges fuzzied by the effort of being yesterday.
My body is still but my mind is near hysterical, feeling blindly along the walls, looking for an exit that might suddenly open unto Rembrandt's Nightwatch in the Rijksmuseum, or the display of shrunken heads in the Pitt Rivers. Why my mind wants me to be there, I do not know. It's time to put these waking dreams to sleep.