Right now, I am sitting in my bedroom, typing on my laptop.
I have gorged myself during dinner, and feel bloated. It’s an uncomfortable feeling. I’m hoping it’ll pass soon.
Streetlights are glimmering outside the window, on the darkened streets, whites and yellows, like earthbound stars.
It’s night time, so the flush of vehicles on the road is abating. There is still the occasional whoosh of a car driving past, a feather of motion.
It’s very, very quiet. There’s a clock ticking somewhere. Tick. Tick. Sonorous and lovely and inexorable.
My table is a jungle of scattered books. It’s a struggle to find anything in its bewildering wilderness.
I feel sad and happy and calm. I feel happy, because it’s quiet, and I’m alone, and I got to read for hours today. I feel sad because I miss childhood and time is passing too fast and nothing is forever no matter how much I want it to be. I am also dissatisfied with my writing efforts. I feel calm, because night has come, and the world is winding down, being tucked into bed by the moon and the stars. It’s my favorite time of the day. It’s so dark and delicious and silent and lovely.
I wonder whether vampires feel the same way, when dawn trickles its light into the world. Or maybe they just feel fearful and weary, rather than relieved, and simply close up their dark, leathery winds like folding umbrellas and tuck their pale, pointed chins to their necks and sleep, dreaming of a world of perpetual darkness, where things screech and feed beneath a red moon.
Another car just whistled past on the road, accompanied by a staccato beep of horn.
It’s very quiet.