I checked on the clock. It is four hours. I refuse to turn on the light, sleep, I know, will not come. Nocturnal confusion playground now occupies all the space, we can't nothing against him. It's funny as all is called into question, at that time. This is always the time where all switches. Pieces of dreams in which diving a few short seconds have the color hallucinations.
Four hours ten. That night, it's always you who come back. You that I both love more, love more. Much has been said of you, these days, that's perhaps why. You can let you go by hell so easily and that I would like to know holding, although it is probably not my role. If you knew as I think you, always. And as I know how much these thoughts are sterile. Thinking, it does advance much. Maybe it's only of love that never found its form, it will come a day…
Four and a half hours. One idea chasing the other, old fears of artist a little together resurfacing. And I thought have devastated a long time ago. The dragons defeated Thunder sometimes again from their ashes. This story which rotates in a circle, each path. This novel who does not know what he wants, and the author is not known where it is going. An idea that might be giving up, finally. This should stop totally love it, it is not there. Abandoned route of the heroes that it has not finished to grow, it's complicated. Worse than that, it's just immoral. And this too permanent working, it means what? It takes you where? You this is well advanced with one thousand projects on the arms that lead you where you are not sure to feel like going. It seems that you can see what is important.
Four hours forty. A Doliprane, a cigarette. Health care and be evil at a time. Strange behaviour. If he was day now, the sky would be blue, but it is not day. It must be to do with. It may well be a blow to cry. I am at the edge of nearby have envy, to be able to. But no, I know more too do this, cry, it exhausts me in advance. And then, in the dark, I have intuition that it might break something, starting with silence, only remains reassuring that strange night.
Four hours fifty two. Scrap of dream. It was London and the beach and a House like mine, but it wasn't quite it. I had fled something by taking a train. That therefore I flee? NON. I now nothing. This dream said that lies. Why dreams seem to all have something to tell me, tonight? Shut up then. I don't want to hear. And for your information: no, I now nothing. I am facing. I'm a great girl and I am not afraid. Indeed keep, this, I think in my trip, you cannot spoiling me this pleasure.
Five hours six. Bad idea. It was my horizon this beautiful trip and I am near it. Behind, it is the unknown: maybe there is nothing. I stand in thought to the bow of a boat and that gives me Vertigo. The boat? The sea? The piano? The friends? The small pieces of the heart? The books? Nothing works. Everything is a bad idea and turns inevitably to the nightmare. There may be a monster under the bed, finally. All the air as possible. But I prefer not to watch: if I noticed it, I would not have the courage to fight him. Not now. Signs, perhaps, that exhaustion is beginning to be felt.
Five hour twenty-five. Finally, the tears were not necessary to break the silence: a bird started to sing. That made stand up at this hour? It is black outside and there is this small bird, which sifflote. It's funny, it seems that he sings. As we also were times when one is sure to be heard by anyone. Yes, this is it, he sings. And there is this spontaneous melody, that produces itself, like that, without express. I am aware that I will sleep cradled the song of a bird. There is only animated films, normally, to do that. It is almost always when it is not the beautiful things found, it always comes back to the same. It's just to be patient.