The night is soft. I know that's a stupid sentence because it is difficult for anyone to imagine how it is that a night can be soft, but that is exactly what tonight is. It is soft. Bintin's dog shakes her fur. I sit in the disaster that is my room. There is a generator drumming away like some heavy duty cricket. I find these things comforting, and this is why tonight is soft. It is soft like my duvet; soft like water; soft like the foreign strands of her weave. (This is one of the things about writing that I do not understand. If I write that there's a her, why is it that the imagination doesn't see that the her, might not be the her? The her might not even be human. But then againI have no control over you)
I knew where this one was going but I'm not so sure anymore. It was meant to be cathartic, but isn't so anymore. The dog has started to bark. The steward has shuffled to the gate to see why the dog is barking. My cousin has climbed to the top of the stairs, and is now engaging in conversation with the sister. The night is not soft anymore, and I'm sad. If the night was soft, I might have been able to write more but now I can't.