Forget the garish sun, we shall.

Late nights are a beautiful time to keep awake. 3 o'clock is the witching hour, I've been told. I couldn't agree more, for the moon is at its brightest and the clouds part with sudden force. The trees, lamp posts, dew-drop topped leaves and people walking on the street create their own glowing aura. Gravel on the roads is bathed with a yellow-ochre sort of magical light, making them similar enough to the yellow road in Oz. One could expect Dorothy to walk up any moment and tell you it ain't Kansas anymore.

That is when you realize its almost 4.30 and the early morning mist of lore should be rising. A lot has changed in this part of town, the mist does not come with the intensity it had some five years back. Moving back into a warm room is apt at the moment, where the heater churns out hot air by the minute. It crackles away, creating peaceful sounds by way of its motor functions. Dawn hints at creeping in from the window pane as the sounds of the watchman fade away slowly. One can hear the regular 4.56 train whistle away as one bird starts to chirp but then stops, realizing it is still early.

This is when the alarm clocks start to assert their rule over the sleeping habits of mere mortals. At the stroke of five, they act best as a reminder that time has come to sneak under the covers and pretend one was asleep all along. With a heavy sigh, one by one the tabs on the laptop are shut down, the book is taken off the table top and this essay right here is kept for another night of heady conversations with friend.