I'm in bed already. It's 9pm. I'm settling in to read for a while, and it starts pouring down rain. My bedroom is an attic, and the rain falls heavy on the roof. I like it. I'm tucked into flannel sheets with The Brothers Karamazov next to me, and I'm reading by the light of my cell phone because I lack a proper lamp. It works well. I like it. It's dark and I can see the dust floating over the little yellow glow of light and, in this strange cave of mine, where I curl up like a mouse and am safe in my nest, though I am alone I am, for at least this blissful moment, very fond of night.