Night falls heavy, yet it does not silence the room. Instead, it dilutes the quiet until only the softest textures remain. The air smells of powdery floral notes, warm and close like brushed suede against bare skin.
You linger in the dim light, caught in the slow drift of sleeplessness. Your fingers trace the edge of a warm ceramic mug, caressing the dark, roasted chicory within. Each sip offers a bittersweet comfort, a quiet rebellion against the clock.
Insomnia presses a sweet, lingering kiss to your eyelids, keeping you suspended between waking and dreaming. In this velvet stillness, the night wraps around you, unhurried and entirely your own. And now, beneath the moonlight, this poetic archer sleeps.
