How is it that everything seems so much more believable in the silence of the night? Every ridiculous thought that would scamper away like a wet mouse during the day, borrows some spirit from the moonlight and gently presses it's possibility in my head. I wake up from my stupor each morning only to be lured into the obscurity of the witching hour, night after night, day after day. It's a deception they say, but I wouldn't exchange this phantom for any treasure of the world. I couldn't even if I wanted to.
