And doesn't this sound familiar?

Far Too Much, On Nights Like These

Here we sit in a café yellowed with the refrains of old songs, when everyone in this town must be asleep, when people we know have already turned twice in their beds, when people we wish we never knew hear the mutters of their bedmates. See there, even lamplights wink with the rare cars zooming by with roars far too much like an argument we refuse to forget. Don’t you think those explosions of steel and haste wish to quiet themselves, to huddle in the next-to-darkest cul-de-sac, rumbling only when the breeze proves too cold? Don’t you think those tired bulbs high above us want of a stronger wind, that their long, singular limbs could be allowed to creak, before they succumb to their necks badly in need of craning? Look away from walls, my dear, please, ask someone to turn the radio down. We are yet to look at the stars, barely visible, yes, that we could think they have sneaked off for a nap, think this, if only to feel better for ourselves. Look, could you, look—the waning of light reaching us far too late, pinpricks on the sky content (we think) to be without sound. Look, and later, we will have to go to our own beds, ready ourselves with things we have not dared to speak of on nights like this, later still. And I know, my friend, tomorrow, we will talk of how all of these, all of them with their blinking and their disguised whimpers filled our heads with far too much sheen and rhythm, that in the last few moments of our waking, we still touch our hands to our mouths, expecting the few bars of a dead mother’s lullaby, or the sudden, vast glare peeking from between our fingers.

For Kael.