There is a point, as sleep beckons, when I wonder what it would be like to go on. The music plays, the night passes on outside my window. A mug of coffee steams, the house settles and lies still. My world folds in, the vastness beyond my senses fading into incomprehension, deconstructed to concepts and ideas and memories. Melancholy stirs, dreams and slumber held at bay. My fingers type. My eyes read, stare out of the window into darkness, glance here and thereabouts. Thoughts slow, threads and trails of them swirling gently, entwined within and without, tendrils in the wind. There comes a point, each night, when I decide whether to surrender, or to go on.