Past midnight, I might be my most real self. Low table with a bright laptop, with ears half-glued to introverted jazz piano pieces, hips on the ground, cross-legged.

I am privileged enough to perceive it as discomfort any other time of the day.

But past midnight, my palms embrace the cold tiles and my hip bones don’t hurt anymore. The taste of silence is both parching and greased, like a pine leaf, or a vintage memory with a friend. My fingers sway circles on the ground in their own ritual, expecting to hear raindrops on my window. Around 2 in the night I understand why this jazz piano piece is# discordant in its beats over so many of its parts. It never was.

(Midnight Mood, Alternate – Bill Evans)

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