It’ s 3:15 in the morning. It’s pretty quiet. The only noise, other than the pressing of these keys, is the sound of a street cleaner making its rounds. It has a bit of a dull, almost white noise kind of hum to it. It’s not on my street, by the sounds of it; it’s a couple of blocks away.
I have often thought it would be cool to have a job like that. The kind of job that lets you work late at night, and alleviates the need to be social. I like that idea. Well mostly. More to the point, the need to be social with complete strangers. I’m not that keen on it. Usually I find meeting people a little painful, unless they give off some sort of a disarming charm. If there is no sense of human warmth, I’m not comfortable. I get really fidgety. (It’s sort of like how a dog has to sniff you out before it decides how acceptable you are…) This can however be rectified by the addition of Scotch. Ply me with the water of life, and sadly, then I can find interest in people that would normally drive me mad.
There is something to be said for the quiet. It’s in those increasingly rare moments, when my brain unwinds. I get to think without the noise pollution that my head is constantly infected with. There are no fires to put out; there is no manic need to get something done. It’s brilliant.
I have detected another noise. It is the ticking sound of my wristwatch. Tick… Tick… Tick…
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