Nights are short during this time of the year. At these times, world is quiet, as if it is holding its breath. There is no sun, there is no moon. Light and shadow coexist. I exist between both. Dodgy figures stare at me, they are standing at the windows. I'm not afraid. I think about the future. Is it still shaped based on my present? I hope not, I've made mistakes today. Last time I paid a price that I was not willing to.
I am lost here, in a silent moment, strange to everything else. I think I might be the only one awake in the whole planet. I could be. Maybe, in a philosophic way, I am. Except for the shapes of the men at the windows. They are not even looking at me, as I am not looking at them. I'm sure they are ghosts from other times, echoes of other sorrows that lived and died before me. Maybe I am an echo myself, studied by the curious gaze of a future, lost kid just like me.
Henderson Hall is a big place - it will be smaller soon, but it will always be big, too big for me (us). Mobiles, typewriters, ink, the mind itself. We write. We all write. If only we could talk to each other, what would we say?
4:41am
We are echoes in time. Ripples.
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4:42am
He is aware.
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