this is not a booty call...

Oh where have all my nighthawks gone? Where are you, artists of the wee hours, whose creative juices only start flowing when the crepuscule creeps in? Here I am, in the middle of the night, longing for dialogue. Here I am, once again, with that feeling I can't name, a concept that won't yield to definitions, an image that won't be described, an anxiety whose source I can't pinpoint. There are things to discuss, debates to be had, new manifestos to compose... yet all my loved ones and comrades are in bed, asleep, at work, engaged. The idea sits still with me, giving me the stink eye. Some nights you have to go it alone. Indeed.