In the darkness, I can imagine that everything in my room is staring at me; my phone, my half-scrawled notes - this glowing screen. Watching me, weighing what I've done today against what I'll do tomorrow; reminding me of calls I never picked up and eyes I've never seen and letters I never intended to send. I am too scared to look back; I don't know what I'll see in those cold, judging, non-existent eyes; I know - wasted days, wasted years, minutes I never touched, moments I never seized, startled glances and half-sure smiles I could have reached out and held in the palm of my hand. Fear in a handful of dust; being and not-being, it's half past two in the morning.
The silence confuses me; I could be here in the dark or I could still be waiting at the train station, waiting and waiting for a thought that never comes. The platform is empty and silent and lonely and I swear no matter at which end of the train I get off the escalator's always the wrong way round. Maybe little goblins creep in at night and change them when nobody's looking. Maybe every night a dream-train slides silently into the station and goblins and fairies crawl out of the crumbling dust and no one will ever see them but me.
It's half past two in the morning and I am not drunk but I wish I were so this would make sense. I wish this would all make sense but your quiet breathing slips through my fingers like fairy dust and all around me, squatting like forgotten trinkets in the dark, little goblins are watching me type.