We call it “nightlife.” Just running from quiet, from ourselves. We lose a little life for a few loud hours. The line moves. We don’t notice— until it’s behind us. Call it fun. It’s anesthesia. Loud enough to work. Expensive enough to last. It doesn’t solve a thing. It just postpones it— and adds interest. Morning collects what the night borrowed. It starts as a choice. Then it becomes a habit. Then it becomes a bill. I can make it quiet. I take everything for it. Call it fun. It’s anesthesia. Loud enough to work. Expensive enough to last.
