night brings with it an inability to sleep; the mind has no desire to sleep, it never wants to have to smile or laugh or cry or even close the eyes again, but rather to live alone in a library of grandioso style, with no need for energy or sustenance except for that which comes from learning new things. and yet, the eyes itch and water, and unfocus. chills run through the body, the muscles cramp up and down the spinal cord, the hands still shake slightly from mistakes made in previous hours. the ears never want to hear a voice again except for that which comes from playing recordings of music. the skin shrinks back from human touch. it is a wish for the company of only the work of great authors and composers. it is a wish for solitude.