the witching hour.

there's juz somefink attractive about the night, this strange quality that somehow softens the heart and calmly persuades the most stubborn of minds to submit to its will. we whisper our secrets to it, embrace it, try to immerse ourselves in its vastness, entrust it with our thoughts and allow it to touch our hearts. the night is our friend, or foe, our master, our servant. always there, always listening. never judging. what eats at me though is the thought that the day would come, that one fateful day, when even the night deserts us.

god forbid.

who will listen then?

what eats at me too is how much falling hurts. u fall and fall, hopeful, that perhaps someone might be there to juz catch you.

foolish really.

falling is juz that. falling.

funny how it eats and gnaws and is never, not even once, satiated.