There are nights as if being created for staying awake and looking at cracks on the ceiling or dried flowers and leaves, glued over the bed, or painted stars. There are nights as if being created to swim slowly in a dark whirlpool of thoughts, stumbling on some puffy, hopelessly spoiled gizmos and relentlessly pulling them out of the mire and looking at them very close.
There are nights as if being created for grief or thinking, or savoring the solitude.
