I do a thing lately where I wake up in a sweat, like a sick hamster or a thoroughbred, and I discover the night is no longer what I thought it was. Black. Blue. Washes of ink failing to stifle the piercing light of a billion angry stars. Instead it’s turned to yellow, dark yellow, bright yellow struggling off that same inky oppressiveness with some meager success. In the yellow there are things that bite and bleed and die, but not in here.
So I’m awake in a yellow night and the back of my neck is crawling and clammy. Not a good start to a liedown. Pillows only get two sides and neither one is any good. It’s too warm for this scrap of a blanket and too cold without. Something in the order of things is robbing me of sleep, one light one neck one pillow one blanket at a time.
But that’s fine! I’m too old to sleep in and too young to get up on time. Some people call this the “magic hour”. It used to have something to do with witches. Laying in the tepid heat, you can feel the air catch its breath, choke for breath, grasp for that final relief before the flesh of the night is melted back and sunlight punches its way into windows with a big FUCK YOU.
And me, I’m a part of this now, suspended, waiting for the punch or the punchline. Good night. Good morning. Good evening.