It was about half past three in the morning. The writer preferred it this way, free from daylight hours, in these hours of bespoken night he could truly break away from the intricacies of the rat race. Like a hermit who takes inhabitance within a cabin in a secluded forest. There in the hours where the sun was not in the sky, he was truly free to create a realm of his own imaginings. During these hours he worked best. Perhaps during daylight, at a subconscious level, he was trapped in the mass consciousness of others as they busied themselves through the streets. Hunting in their primitive desire for capital and possession. The primal instincts which modern civilization had transferred from the hunting of an animal into the hunting of tokens. Yes, the human animal, the primitive beast, always the hunter, always the predator, questing for gain. That which transcended it was the story. The nature of the story, the spirit of man that could be captured in its many tales. That was what the writer was attempting to do, always attempting to do in his quest to capture a story. Attempting to capture the spirit of the beast. Reflect upon the nature of humanity. Describe it and eventually become something more… To overcome the conflicted nature of the human being, one must first come to terms with what that conflicted nature is. Exploring the human animal’s spirit in all of its diverse characteristics.

He was doing well with his task. But what’s more, at that hour he had just run out of cigarettes. “Bastards!” The curse went nowhere, no-one was awake at this hour to hear it. In reflection, he was just cursing himself.

He put on a coat and headed outside. It was summer, yet the cool air of night called for the coat. So he walked down the street. There was a twenty-four hour convenience store at the end of it. So to there he walked. He mumbled something to himself, again, something about the bastards. Perhaps he had developed some mild form of Tourette syndrome. Or maybe it was just the lack of human contact and he wished to hear the voice of someone. His own voice, but still a voice, an escape from the eerie silence pervading the entirety of his life.

He arrived at the convenience store. Bought his cigarettes and a can of soda. Outside he drank the can and smoked a cigarette. Then made the journey back home. On his way a woman he saw walking on the opposite side of the road. Rarely did he see other people at this hour of night, especially when the next day was a weekday. Another day of work for the man caught up in the hunt for these tokens they exchanged for materials.

“Hey,do you have a cigarette?” She yelled.

“I do.” The writer replied.

“Can I have one?”

“Yes, just wait. I’ll come across the road to you.” The writer crossed the road and rolled a cigarette for the woman from his pouch of tobacco. “This is an odd hour of night,” he commented, “what are you doing out?”

“Well, I was hanging around with a bunch of guys and they gave me this clear liquid they called GHB.”

“GHB is a rape drug.” The writer remembered this from conversations in his decadent past.

“Well, they weren’t interested in me. I just started drawing pictures and talking about the devil and then they told me to leave.”

“Yes, well, these things happen.”

“Hey, can I have another cigarette?”

The writer thought about it and then decided to conserve his tobacco and the cigarette for himself at a later date. “I’m sorry. I can’t really afford it.”

She mumbled something to herself, “Well, I guess I better go home and talk to the walls.”

The writer got up and continued his journey home, “’Tis a fine thing to do. To talk to the walls. I do it all the time.”

At that time of night. You rarely run into anybody, but those you do always have a story to tell.

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