Passing 10pm. Having washed away the day and its nights. Eyelids half-closed, narrowing down the world to a small line of indistinguishable lights blurring into each other. Sleep as a temporary promise, refraining from sleep as an option but a bad one. Symbols for the times being: Spectators of mental movies. Tired wizards, magic wands, pink flowers. An unpolished plot. And few audible ovations when the curtains close. (Have a pleasant night wherever you are.)