It’s the end of the night, and everyone knows it, but no one wants to get up and leave. We’re waiting for someone to scoot to the edge of the couch and say well, I should probably get going. We don’t want the night to really be over, because the morning makes us responsible, and we dislike our responsible selves. Our lives feel so heavy but we know it’s just because we’re tired and weak.
We’re nostalgic for what isn’t yet over and it’s uncomfortable. We’re waiting for night to kiss us on the doorstop of tomorrow but we know it’s too shy. Instead, it will be impersonal when we leave and the night’s contentment will be fleeting.