Everytime I think of writing something, it's no longer enough. It's no longer what I want to write. It's just not what I thought a long time ago that I would be writing. It's not what I feel happy writing.

The mind travels to a time when there was a little diary and pretty pens with coloured ink that I always carried in my bag. And used all the time at the strangest of places. A local train, a platform bench, a 3am-glass-of-water-need turning into an hour of writing furiously. As the world sleeps, I sit silently on my desk by the large window and look out to the looming building and try to catch a glimpse of the sea beyond? the mystery of the night tells its own story. I listen.

Sometimes I walk out to the dimly lit long corridor and then find my friend M walking out herself. We go to the stairs and sit together. We weave stories. We talk of different lives. We wrap each other in fascinating webs of the most amazing tales. We talk of past lives, we live them again. Some real, some surreal.

And then when we know the moon has travelled to the other side of the sky, we go back to our rooms and sleep.

In the morning, it's another day. I try to relive the stories of the night but they always seem to have flown away. But while they lasted in the night, I tell you, I lived like no human had lived before.