In my head at night I'm a masterpiece, I compose the symphonies for which I would have been burned, I create the science for which we would have evolved. 

At night I'm a challenger, that is to say, I'm a God, my mind conjures words that my mechanical fingers can't articulate. 

At night the city is a whisper, it's the brush of the wind with the asphalt, the echo of the footsteps of thieves, the horn through empty streets. It's the moment in which poetry exhales, and I'm not outside, nor inside, I'm still, I'm on the balcony and in my bed with closed eyes. Feeling the cold of the buildings cutting the heights of the clouds, the heat burning in the fire of the chimneys, I become the mixed laughter and the noise of the voices that my mind is building. I'm an orchestra of what I don't know, I only feel, and it's that the city, the world, is hanging by a thread. 

It's the climax and the baby is about to cry, the tea takes three minutes to be ready, but my fingers don't rush in picking up the plume, my tongue doesn't bite itself in remembering, my mind recites the great promise of it all. And my eyes, my closed eyes, carry it all to the dreams of the night and bury it in the oblivion of the unknown.

TA.