Rosy-fingered raspberryman

The muse of limericks (a girl from Nantucket, I understand) has looked away from me. The absence of her gaze is a cold hell. I feel lonely, lost, pointless.

The salmon-colored, glowing snowsky of Boston always created in me a physical euphoria. Maybe it is because I am hopped up on chocolate and soda at the moment, but I can almost feel that delicious, desperate need to jump out of myself that dogged me on those odd fluorescent nights.

I knew the night so well back then. I had to wean myself from it after college - it's a useless preoccupation. But the universe is just my size at night. There is no sky to dwarf me, only the ground beneath my feet. Stars are pinholes that could as well be just out of reach as a trillion miles away. Streetlights too are like stars, not planted to the ground by poles but hovering in the dark. My breath is right by me, in my ears, on my face, and my skin is electrified by the icy air of midnight.

Senses come to life. Smells are stronger, sounds more distinct, the touch and texture of every surface seems suddenly important. How many times I wanted to melt into an ecstasy of darkness!