The nights are long, the trees are black, and there is no light to be found.
Where the lonely wanderers of the night walk down the empty halls, nothing but the sound of their blood rushing and their own breathing to keep them company.
Comfort is found in the stale air of the room, the quietness, the remoteness.
For once, their mind is allowed to wander, wander through the various hours of the day.
The faint whisper of a memory passes over, brushes against their arm;
A breath of laughter, a hint of a smile, the first sun after a cold winter.
But now their mind is a restless animal, prowling the edges and furthest corners of their existence;
This is a place where it is possible to forget the name, the number, or even the birthday of a long time friend.
There is longing in their stomach and it claws back and a hole is slowly being made.
The sleepless night has condemned them, to walk these halls, unable to find rest, unable to find the comfort of sleep.
How can they stop the jittering in their hands? The shaking of their leg? The uneasy feeling that creeps back into the pit of their stomach and fills that same hole?
Why is it that they can not turn off their brain? To have one fleeting moment that is completely their own, without the whizzes and buzzing; the constant chattering.
How can their bones still ache, their head still pound?
Finally exhaustion clouds their vision, letting them sink down;
Down into the coolness of the sheets,
Sleep finally taking them.