The strange combination of the lovely, homey scent of freshly baked cinnamon buns, and the intense, frank reeking of urine pissed on the cold stone tiles of the Metro entrance. Freshly ground coffee, and old, decomposing cigarette butts. These oddly matched scents and smells pave the way to work on a lousy, grey Saturday morning in April.

As the brisk early spring wind fades into a softened breeze which makes the long strands of hair, still considered a fringe, tickle my nose and slightly annoy my sight, the sun transcends the clouds and sends a shy, but charming, ray to melt away the cold indifference of a much too harsh winter, which still lingers on my face. My pale skin, sick with longing for summer, soaks up the warmth and the light with eager anticipation, despite the brain's struggle against it. But the brain cannot win every battle, and lucky for me.

I consider the coming night, though it is far away in the morning (it is because I can still see the faint shadow of the moon, near full, on the pale, blue morning sky). The night, the night... The heart loves the night, as do my feet and my hands. They all come alive when darkness seeps in trough my pores, and my eyes catch the radiant, reflecting glow of the moon, pregnant with mirroring light.

At night the moon talks to me. It whispers with a hushed voice - it is almost silent, but I can hear it, murmur. It reveals its secrets, it tells me of what lies inside it, beneath the hard surface, the cracks, and the craters. And in friendly banter it tells me about its lover, the sun, and how they cannot live with one another, yet cannot be fully apart. "It is intricate", it tells me, "but it is love." And me, in awe, I nod silently in agreement, though I am only at the beginning of understanding, but I am learning. I am learning, and I am eager to learn.

So I consider the night, the night when I shall come to life; when my limbs and my bones and my veins will spring back to lustful life, basking in the moonlit reflection of the stars up ahead that shines down, quiet and queer, onto my equally pale cheeks, my nose, my templates.

The night, the night... I want the night naked; I want him happy and naked and aroused. I want to give him every single fleeting desire, and the everlasting ones; I want to wade out, waist-deep, in the glorious sea of his species; I want to quench the thirst in me, and in him - the night, the night, the night, tonight.