Nights are for insomnia flooding through your bloodstream as your beats shout and clap and swoon to the rhythm of Sheeran songs.
Nights are for laying under the dome of the brooding sky, stargazing into the delicious remnants of people’s memories you have inherited.
Nights are for words cooked and badly burnt and some worthy ones served to the paper.
Nights are for knitting your soul thread by the thread to undo the damage inflicted earlier.
Nights are for the resurrection of tunes of longing and love lost in the puzzles of black holes of nightmares.
Nights are for the universe to crunch and bang and for motionless earthquakes to stagger you off the cliff as you become the free, as you become the fall.
Nights are a drama, my lady.
And I am the protagonist.