I imagine counting the blue lines on a blank page. That’s about all I can manage now as the night grows weary and taciturn. It spreads out in deceptively bright terms, like the vague onset of illness. I search all around for darkness. It is everywhere, but prefers not to properly manifest itself. Instead there is the shrewdness of visible things – born of the night, but not letting on. Only their passivity and immobility provides any sign of the space above and below. It is no use trying to describe a disordered arrangement of paper. Two non-corresponding edges – like saw teeth. Stepped pile of books. Black wires with a number of strong bends. I am very tired. But I can stare this scene down as long as anyone. I can remain here as long as necessary. No doubt if I look long enough – if I examine not only the scene before me but my heart – I will find a means of actually seeing the darkness, of not mistaking the night for something else.