this is night. this is daytime without light, wide eyed and not shy, not reading either just trying all the different positions in bed as laughter comes from downstairs. my eyes are kept open, in rigor mortis, by the caffeine substitute that might be life. every now and again cars pass by. this is every type of jealousy, jealousy of other men and other lives and jealousy of my younger self (my younger life) and the small collection of memories of which it is comprised. beata beatrix. we were a band once, now we’re not. cars roll by, ever deeper, tumbling down a hill to the city centre like loose boulders, towards the river, the natural process of life. it’s all a cycle. we were a band once. beata beatrix. what happens in the end? she dies. my limbs are betrayed by life. this is night.