Calling the Insomniac
The night is not quiet - The confident just drown out the sound of pages turning, of tears falling and sobs racking empty chests - of pens pushing their way through paper the black inky intimacy of the depressives only friend. Those that do not listen miss the sound of hands slacking, that soft thud of the hopeless in the sullen dark. The night is not dead. For there are living things abound,...