Nights like these are dangerous.

It would take a dull knife to cut me from this reverie; a sharp point would merely slice through, a stranger unannounced, unnoticed. My mind is the open sea, my mouth a shell on its sandy recesses, waiting to be cracked open. I could go on forever and talk someone's ear off, not because I have something important to tell, but because I have the need to connect, to feel that click with someone and be satisfied that I had done something significant for the day. There is nothing fruitful to what I do, even though I make money, at the end of the day, it is just paper after all.
Long hard days, I look forward to those, because then I can lose myself in its monotonity, awaiting me in the dark like a sullen child. I greet cold mornings distantly because I know it will take longer for me to be warm; and then on days when the sun returns on its promise, I lie in the middle of its heat and let my skin feel the rhythm of its invisible waves. An ocean could, does, wash over me, day in, day out, and on these nights, it silently laps against my feet, gently.