Staring at the ceiling at night

I see them all through the run of a day but they only really talk to me at night, wherever that may be.

The rapists, the floorcleaners, the widowers, the lampshade repair men, the captains, the sons, the victims, the happy, the confused, the high, the unconscious, the writers, the broke, the restrained and those plotting revenge.

We have many different conversations, I am indifferent. Sometimes death will visit; he prefers to talk at night as well. He is also indifferent.

They talk because they want to know, such is the price with perspective. I remain silent because I know. Shelter is hope and this is the fuel of will. I am birthed from the womb of rationality. A smiling mute who cries at the sum of cruelty and the overwhelming chasm of joy.

i really enjoyed this. you’re speaking from an interesting perspective, an observer. perhaps a passive observer that can never be passive because you are observing.

I really enjoyed that.