The Night of the Day

He slides the hang-up button.

Text: >:( *mad face*

Reply: hold on i'm writing

Text: is it good?

Reply: no

Text: >>>>>:(

He stares at the darkness consuming him, embodied by the empty page on the bright screen. The cursor blinks back at his shadowy face, shadowy in persona not physicality. His hair stands on end.

Thoughts overwhelm him, dragging him back to his day life of bright lights and ear-screeching noises. The constant shudder of machinery and howls of horns. The everbeating engine, its steady thud of heavy hammering.

Now it's dark. The room is quiet. The night is young.

He already turned the AC up to max, to induce chills. The light of his screen is maxed out and it hurts his eyes. He considers blasting some music. He's under stimulated and only finds peace in the constant chaos of work. The painful world he inhabits of loud noises, bright lights, and adrenaline. Now, he sits in the darkness trying to recreate it. *Oversaturate, desensitize* he tells himself.

Is it good? No. Is it good? Is it good? No.

Is he safe? She asked.

Safe? He asked incredulously, letting out a chuckle.

Of course he's not safe, he replies, he's a lion.

Chronicles of Narnia.

Is it good?

Is it good?

No.

*Mad face*

But He is good. The beaver said.

Chronicles of Narnia.

He turns the music on. He likes to listen to it at "15", whatever that means.

He turns it to 37.

It hurts his ears.

He leans back, watching the cursor bounce in and out of existence.

The darkness consumes him.

The screen blinds his face.

The air shivers his skin. It cuts to his bones.

Is it good? No. How can it be good? How can it ever be good?

No.