My brain has never been wired to sleep at times that normal people would consider standard. I generally find myself beginning to yawn around six p.m. and by seven thirty on most days I'm out like a light. At two in the morning, I'm wide awake again and entire herds of sheep cannot put me back to sleep. I've come to prefer this cycle of awareness to any other because I find I do my best work when other people aren't around to distract me.
This happened last week. It was a night much like any other. The blood-moon was slowly rising to its highest position above the purple rag sky. Sleep was an impossibility. Playing tug-of-war with sleep is the most frustrating game - the harder you pull, the further away the rope goes. I got up from bed and took out my violin to play away the time.
A cloud floated over the moon, turning it into a ghostly sickle-shape that cast deep crescents over the skin below my eyes. The violin wailed like a restless demon - this was unintentional. I have a tendency to move my bow too close to the bridge, which is the origin of a deeply unpleasant high-pitched shrieking noise. Winds blew grey clouds across the somber sky like boats full of uneasy dead down the river Styx. All sorts of horrible imaginings fluttered down to rest on my tired mind like moths clustering on a flickering bulb. That was when he came.
He clawed his way over the railings of my balcony with nauseating smoothness. The sound of his garments as they brushed over the cool stone was the rustling of leaves over snake scales. Every few seconds he would stop and raise his head to the pale witness above, and in the flat light of the moon his face was wetly gleaming. He made his way ever closer to me with gamboling movements on all fours, following a zig-zag path which was impossible to predict. Finally he stood within arm's distance from me, and split his face in ghastly enquiry.
"Do you gotta hafta make that noise right exactly now?" he asked, sounding aghast.
"Why not?" I asked him "Is it doing violence to your feelings?"
He clutched his head in unutterable agony. "Say," he said, earnestly, "Make another pun like that and I'll rend you from throat to spleen and shred you into little bits like so much confetti. Leave it off. Kazafzky."
"What does kazafzky mean?" said I, nonchalantly playing a short ditty and adding a little extra vibrato for effect.
"It means I'll feast on your tissues if you don't stop it right this atomic second," said the creature of the night, baring its fangs.
"I bow below your threats," I said, "In fact, I'm quite strung up by them."
"Bless me," he snarled, pulling his hair out in fistfuls, "If I don't consume you before you've had time to blink twice."
"Why don't you?" I asked.
"High blood pressure," he moaned. "Diet. Cholestrol. Otherwise I'd snap you up, twiddly strings and all."
"I thought you couldn't stomach my playing."
He beat himself about the head with clenched hands. "You're a depraved creature," he howled, "I should rid the world of the plague that is you and I would, if I had any sense in my head, only you're so coated all over in nasty chemicals. I'm only supposed to eat organic humans nowadays."
"This is a concerted effort to wound me," I said, "I'm as edible as anyone else."
"That's all you know about it," said he, with unnecessary rudeness.
"Anyway, I am not going to stop playing to accommodate your lack of taste. You don't own the night and I've as much a right to do what I please with it as you do."
"But I do own the night," he said, triumphantly, "I've had documents made out an' deverything."
He produced a stiff, official-looking card which designated him as the Sole Proprietor of the hours of ten p.m. to five a.m., with all rights, etc., etc., for the next three thousand years.
"Who gave you this?" I asked sternly, trying not to seem intimidated.
"Real estate agency," he smirked, "I was gonna buy five a.m. to ten a.m. as well in the beginning, but they said they hadn't the time. So stop that infernal scraping or I'll devour you like a herd of cattle."
"Sounds like a clock and bull story to me. You'd better watch that agency. I'm going to finish this sonata."
I continued to play while he beat his head against the cold floor and moaned. It was a very long night and the rest of my conversation with this interesting being will be narrated at a later date.
This happened last week. It was a night much like any other. The blood-moon was slowly rising to its highest position above the purple rag sky. Sleep was an impossibility. Playing tug-of-war with sleep is the most frustrating game - the harder you pull, the further away the rope goes. I got up from bed and took out my violin to play away the time.
A cloud floated over the moon, turning it into a ghostly sickle-shape that cast deep crescents over the skin below my eyes. The violin wailed like a restless demon - this was unintentional. I have a tendency to move my bow too close to the bridge, which is the origin of a deeply unpleasant high-pitched shrieking noise. Winds blew grey clouds across the somber sky like boats full of uneasy dead down the river Styx. All sorts of horrible imaginings fluttered down to rest on my tired mind like moths clustering on a flickering bulb. That was when he came.
He clawed his way over the railings of my balcony with nauseating smoothness. The sound of his garments as they brushed over the cool stone was the rustling of leaves over snake scales. Every few seconds he would stop and raise his head to the pale witness above, and in the flat light of the moon his face was wetly gleaming. He made his way ever closer to me with gamboling movements on all fours, following a zig-zag path which was impossible to predict. Finally he stood within arm's distance from me, and split his face in ghastly enquiry.
"Do you gotta hafta make that noise right exactly now?" he asked, sounding aghast.
"Why not?" I asked him "Is it doing violence to your feelings?"
He clutched his head in unutterable agony. "Say," he said, earnestly, "Make another pun like that and I'll rend you from throat to spleen and shred you into little bits like so much confetti. Leave it off. Kazafzky."
"What does kazafzky mean?" said I, nonchalantly playing a short ditty and adding a little extra vibrato for effect.
"It means I'll feast on your tissues if you don't stop it right this atomic second," said the creature of the night, baring its fangs.
"I bow below your threats," I said, "In fact, I'm quite strung up by them."
"Bless me," he snarled, pulling his hair out in fistfuls, "If I don't consume you before you've had time to blink twice."
"Why don't you?" I asked.
"High blood pressure," he moaned. "Diet. Cholestrol. Otherwise I'd snap you up, twiddly strings and all."
"I thought you couldn't stomach my playing."
He beat himself about the head with clenched hands. "You're a depraved creature," he howled, "I should rid the world of the plague that is you and I would, if I had any sense in my head, only you're so coated all over in nasty chemicals. I'm only supposed to eat organic humans nowadays."
"This is a concerted effort to wound me," I said, "I'm as edible as anyone else."
"That's all you know about it," said he, with unnecessary rudeness.
"Anyway, I am not going to stop playing to accommodate your lack of taste. You don't own the night and I've as much a right to do what I please with it as you do."
"But I do own the night," he said, triumphantly, "I've had documents made out an' deverything."
He produced a stiff, official-looking card which designated him as the Sole Proprietor of the hours of ten p.m. to five a.m., with all rights, etc., etc., for the next three thousand years.
"Who gave you this?" I asked sternly, trying not to seem intimidated.
"Real estate agency," he smirked, "I was gonna buy five a.m. to ten a.m. as well in the beginning, but they said they hadn't the time. So stop that infernal scraping or I'll devour you like a herd of cattle."
"Sounds like a clock and bull story to me. You'd better watch that agency. I'm going to finish this sonata."
I continued to play while he beat his head against the cold floor and moaned. It was a very long night and the rest of my conversation with this interesting being will be narrated at a later date.
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