Scribe of the Night

A symphony echoes like ripples through the velvet darkness of midnight. Music to one’s ears is silence to another’s and the room is thus filled with as much sound as it is with quiet. Street lamps illuminate empty pathways far below, lined with white columns like those of Ancient Rome. Each column stands vigil in the deserted citadel and guards its fallen queen. And I, scribe of the night, record the touch of solitude’s cool fingertips and the embrace of the moonlit mist that keeps me company. High above, the sky is aglow with the wishes of insomniacs and hopeless romantics, and I blow a wish upon my kiss to join them.


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