the amount of literature she digested
under the disseminating illumination of
the moon, in the engulfing, silent,
embrace of the night, could be
debilitating her imagination.
her deliberate attempts to dive behind the
subconscious of writers, the inability to
envision anything futher, from between
the sentences, from inside the fictitious
beings, places, their names and traits,
exhausted her before dayspring.
the light of the day seems to be a bit
generous today, penetrating softly
quarter by quarter, arranging an
ambience that even lampshades cannot
offer. allowing her to keep the spirit of
last night for a little while longer.