It’s night and the house is miraculously silent save for the ticking of a clock and my own click-click-clicking on the computer. The stillness of night is a haven for thinking thoughts. I don’t manage much stillness these days (or nights).
I used to relish such time and use it to set words in motion in poetry I fancied significant. There’s nothing quite like pouring out your heart on paper, dressing up the truth in metaphor. My house is a fortress, a lone beacon of light, guarding me against the darkness of a naked world.