I’d put a sigh to a page if I could

Not the word but the sound

The sinking shoulders, the tired laugh before

The moment after

The weary silence

Like petrichor

Wiping sleep from my eyes

And staring at a streetlight through a single-pane window

I hate poetry. But at the same time, I love it. Never been worth a damn at it but I figure it’s the emotion that counts. The feeling. Sometimes there’s a feeling you can’t get across in plain words and have to resort to the wise man’s language.

Never liked this city, either. I don’t think many do. We’ve all felt it; a shadow that stretches all the way from Asterwyrth’s false sun to that godforsaken hole in the earth. Digging into god’s corpse and selling his giblets.

I dunno. Maybe I’m just frustrated. Maybe the whiskey’s sitting with me wrong. Maybe it’s the eternal night. “Nyctopathy,” the shrink calls it.

I can’t sleep. I’m sitting with a drink and every single light on, trying to convince myself the sun is up. The haze of the liquor is beating the buzz of my lights, so far. I need to call the landlord and get that fixed.

If I were a twitter woman I’d make a joke about daydrinking. But I’m not. My lot is to fill every stereotype a detective has.

I wish I were a different person, sometimes. Someone who did things and stuck to them. Write a song or something. But these fingers are lead on the ivory, and there’s no insight from me you couldn’t get from a bum outside the bar.

I’m being cynical. I think most folks in this city have cynicism deep in their bones.

Nyctopathy is a condition defined as “the set of behaviours a human can adopt when exposed to prolonged nighttime conditions.” Melancholy, anxiety, insomnia, paranoia, lethargy, mostly. Sometimes psychotic episodes. Let me tell you, you see that thrown around a lot in court.

Not everyone in Horlav has it, only about thirty or so percent of the population. It’s a natural human response, I’m sure. But it was never meant to be one we had to endure.

I wonder if there’s a place for us in this world. I’ve seen the Jharn wall, I’ve seen the pictures of the Harrow Valley Civilization the College uncovered not long ago. Will we be next to leave something behind? Or will all we leave behind be mining pits and litter?

Feeling philosophical, I guess. That’s the word for it. I get like this when I can’t sleep. It’s why I write letters for this place. Not sure if you’re getting them. Not like you’d publish them anyways, some stream-of-consciousness rambling from a drunkard.

It’s this case that’s sitting with me, I think. I don’t know. There’s only so much I can do before it goes into the purview of the supernatural.

How fucked up is it we’re supposed to keep a workday when there’s no sun to even keep a day?

I’m gonna turn the lights off and try to sleep. Maybe it’ll let me, this time.