Swaying to an unheard rhythm, something pulls at me, a thought, just beyond my grasp. I always contemplate the same thoughts in these late hours that I have claimed as my own. I suppose that sitting here in solitude cultivates moments of loneliness, and moments of acceptance, when being alone doesn’t seem so bad, tolerable, despite what my soul tells me. Sometimes I can even convince it that a life such as mine won’t kill me, that I can find a way to live on. But in my moments of lucidity, I have a longing... for the one upon who my soul drinks. But the darkness is a lonely place, a place where he can’t join me. And he would hinder me all the more. An untrainable young boy is he, so my back goes unwatched. And I sit here, in my hours, and think, but no good ever comes of that.