Hello, 2:10 am.

Sometimes the feeling of holding a pen against a piece of paper is the most serene thing in the world. And then you write, breaking all the peace with your thoughts and with a penmanship that brings to life an uncontrolled passion of the subconscious.

And you think of stars, how they are so solemnly existing in the night sky as if it is the most natural thing in the world. But it's not, you know it's not. The universe is a question and a certainty existing in a singular dimension, a space sinking in the black hole of thought and belief. Stars in the night sky are not normal, you see, because they are not constant - they die. They burn out, much like the passions of the heart, who so seemingly appear as the most natural things in the world against the night sky. They burn out, in a universe of question and certainty, and you become a black hole because life is sucked out of you.

Then your pen runs out of ink, and suddenly you can't see stars anymore, making you doubt whether they existed in the first place. Whether you saw sparks in the darkness in the first place. Because it is indeed dark and scary out there by yourself. And he is a Stoic.

But you breathe. All it takes is for you to breathe, and already, you know.

You are changed.