Regression

The night is young, as the seconds crawled up the clock, following the darkness’s descent. There were fatigues rolling in my eyes, a sort of whisper in my consciousness. A call-

A call that would have made sense if I wasn’t acting like an idiot for the last couple of hours. And now I’m stuck past bedtime and there are still works to be done. Work-

Works to be done, when I should be in bed, at the edge of consciousness, speaking with the thoughts that float in dreams. And-

I don’t know why I joined the literary club, all right. I don’t know! They’re just a bunch of hippies. Cool hippies. Pretentious bunch, but what are you expecting, honestly?

We’re all hippies. Deep inside.