I love waking up in the middle of the night. The times where everyone else is asleep, and I'm the only one moving. The times where the darkness surrounds you and soaks up the sound that you used to hear. Most especially, I love the sound of the air running through the heating vents. Close your eyes, imagine it. The low-lying hum of warm air. Doesn't the house feel like it's breathing? It's settled down for the night, it's curled up, warding off the cold of the night, taking its long, shallow, fitful breaths, sleeping. Sometimes it'll sigh, snuggle down into its foundations a little more, turn over in its rest. Listen to its content. Isn't it lovely?

At night, this is the state of things. When people are up and awake, they are only objects. They have no intrinsic properties, inherently, than their temperature and position and shape. A cup is, simply put, a fucking cup. You'd be a madman to say otherwise.

But look again. Wait. Just wait. The night settles in, and the people lie dormant. All of them mucking about in the world, they all go abed, and the darkness forms its cushion around the world. Now look. Look and listen. The lights are low, the house is breathing its sleeping breaths, nothing betrays the calm. No human walks up to move that cup from where it is.

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