3 am in the morning feels like 3 pm in the afternoon. I sit here very quietly, cross-legged, pressing my fingernails into the hollow near my ankle habitually. Half-moons appear, little indentations that form and vanish without a trace. The music is soft, barely a whisper, hardly noticeable, as if it has replaced silence as silence itself. I could drown in it and be at peace with myself.

I just finish reading the book I'm supposed to write my term paper on. I forgot how nice it is to just, read. To be so intimate with a book and inhale the woody scent of its pages. You unravel sentences the way you might bite into the copper red, slightly bruised skin of an apple, and watch the whiteness confess itself, the sweet sticky juice trickling down your palm. You no longer have to squint your eyes to read the black ant-like words. You simply watch them leap into the air and twirl into a thousand different scenes and colours. This is accomplished noiselessly -all the sounds are in your head- while you curl up into a ball and become really really still. You hide yourself, forget who you are or where you are. Nothing matters. You melt into the pillows and bed sheets, slip into a crack of malleable time, and grip the book harder with your hands so you don't lose your way.