Night makes for such delicious confession. Only the warm insomniacs inside, writing their muses into weary pages, and those few in the cold beyond. Who use the dark to play their own games deep past the witching hour. Inside is music, coffee, and self reflection. This three-year asana is drawing to its close. Existential tendons have already begun to draw into something different. Steeling for the years abroad. I’m headed overseas.