Nights

I used to do this thing on my blog where I would make the text white to hide certain parts. Secret-ish parts.

Because in a blog, I always wondered. It was like a secret that was there. It was a quaint corner cafe down the alley where the lonely go to and they smile in introspection. It is a place people found, or walked on. But it was always there, with open arms. And you like to know people read you, but perhaps very few actually do, if not none at all. But you still have this corner. And maybe one day people will find it. Maybe one day people will ask. Instead of words, maybe a picture will do.

Vincent Munier, photographer (vincentmunier.com)
Alfred Leonid, artist (google images)

They express... this secret place.

Nights
The nights are longest when you make them
But I liked that it went on
Dragged into the nearing hours of morn
I know I should be sleeping

The yawns longer and deeper
And debris from drink and snack
Crashed out a while ago
But in the ruins I stood and went

In transit dawn to dawn
Knowing you are finally free
Didn't explain it fully
Wanting to go on
I know I should be sleeping