I could feel the scent of the damp night on my skin. The steam from the rising winter moon fogged up the windshield of my car. A calligraphy of nighthawks was sealed with a smile by the thinned sliced crescent in the sky. Somewhere I could make out a faint droning of a beetle in the nearby bushes. It was an exotic melody; akin to a colourful rainbow, which was lively, and devoid of derivatives.
I was never a morning person. I have always been a nocturnal paradox. The night has been my confidante. It breathes fire into my lungs, and squeezes out the oxygen, only to enliven me.