At this hour James is always asleep. His eyes shuttered, quite turned off to the world at large. Or even this small slice right outside his precious windows: a sleepy dreary conflation of whispers and muffled screams, yes, I opened the windows, the guttural and bellicose rushing along hand in hand with the silly spillage of the drunken revelers, fully insistent in the their obstinate foolishness, one might feel compelled to name their determined plodding Faith, a stupid label but indeed handy and easy, and who really cares what labels get chosen and slapped on at this hour.
Yes, this night is lovely. A steady stream of vehicles on the interstate and little else moves. Ten thousand lights shimmer, a ghastly descriptor but that is what lights do, and these shimmering lights are everywhere, in whatever direction the head turns, so many little candles burning, maybe each a separate story or life, maybe each a disappointment burning only from habit. The revelers don't care and they very much have it right. A few gropes and a noisy stumble > idle rumination.
By the time James makes his way to this seat in the morning the page will have been turned. His stick people will be running about under the full illumination he so despises. Lately he can't even look at them, the light too bright, unless it is to perish one. But that is his business and his worry and for tomorrow or such time as he picks up his struggle again. It should be reported the only hole in this evening's spectacular picture is the two plus city blocks that James has labeled his cemetery. It can not be seen this evening, no lights shimmer nearby to illuminate, it is void, null, empty, as much imaginary as anything else, as far as can be proven it is in James's head only, his special resting place a blight to all of the loveliness that surrounds. Someone should wake him the fuck up.