“I had forgotten the glass, but I could hands can see cooling fingers invisible swan-throat where less than Moses rod the glass touch tentative not to drumming lean cool throat drumming cooling the metal the glass full overfull cooling the glass the fingers flushing sleep leaving the taste of dampened sleep in the long silence of the throat I returned up the corridor, walking the lost feet in whispered battalions in the silence, into the gasoline, the watch telling its furious lie on the dark table. Then the curtains breathing out of the dark upon my face, leaving the breathing upon my face. A quarter hour yet. And then I’ll not be. The peacefullest words. Peacefullest words. Non fui. Sum. Fui. Non sum.”
— The Sound and the Fury, Faulkner
The night is kind to me. To walk under lamps and watch the steam of your breath mirror that of the smokestack. Under the blanketed dimness, low clouds reflect light from above, and illuminate glistening drops of precipitation; low, swaying branches bow under weight of new-found life.
It’s so quiet, yet the night is filled with the sounds of rain. Absent are the day voices, replaced with the chorus of the pitter-patter; a subdued caucophony sliding down from the rooftops and gutters for a solo audience.
It’s why I love the night; the rain - the gentle dull pain of being alone.
“No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one’s existence—that which makes its truth, its meaning—its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream—alone.”
— Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness
“Pouring more vodka, he says, “Some of the happiest moments in my life have been spent yakking away under the influence, blabbing to some new acquaintance about nothing in particular. The alcohol was then a medicine, quelling for a time whatever it is in me that keeps me isolated within myself, and allowing me to really enjoy talking with other people. I’m not sure I ever understood my solitude.”
— Better by John O’ Brien
