Nights of tremors

It’s always a night-shift for diaries, for writers beyond mindfulness, for the table lamps and light bulbs, for the dry skins and lucid dreams, for the type-writers and forgotten friends, for the distant sounds of late night carriages, for the goofy gambler who lost his way. It’s night again, which caught on the painter, which flickered in an empty farm, which lingered on, in the piano piece, ever lost.

Night it is, that took the time to light a match.

And we burn.