"i sometimes think that people's hearts are like deep wells. nobody knows what's at the bottom. all you can do is imagine by what comes floating to the surface every once in a while."
- Haruki Murakami, Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman.
it's that kind of night. tokyo blues and quiet nights, drifting in and out of consciousness; sleep coming only in packs of five to ten. rusted dreams in a diamond sky, but it's funny, really, how much is based solely on the time and anniversaries and nostalgias. equations and chemical reactions: piles of homework awaiting, summoning my ever procrastinating self; aimless looking-throughs ten times more intriguing. a lazy friday night i suppose. quiet comfort cushioned with hushed hums of the mechanisms. satisfaction comes by lying about with a blank mind, thinking of nothing and everything in particular. thoughts caught in a wild sheep chase- thinking about a matter for no more than a minute, your mind wanders somewhere else, and then foosh, you're back to square one. right where you begin-
it's that kind of night.
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