He'd stayed awake so late at night. He'd been accustomed to the deep silence in which the day's opposite evolved.

He couldn't help himself. It was part of his duty to remain that way—it was perhaps the best time to paint a clearer image of his imaginations, or he just needed to finish his fated task so he could meet up.

Whichever it was, he found it more appealing to clue in at night.

He sat at his table, picked up his pen and began pouring out his creative imaginaries into the empty sheets of his book.

It was exhausting, but he had to move on; fighting his slumberous state. If he did that, he might miss the smallest spark of inspiration popping up in his medullary.

His pen continued to dance to the rythmic notes in his head, with his hand positioned as...