I am haunted by the lonely call of the midnight train from my bedroom window, the siren song of solitude cutting through the cool evening air and deeply into my being.
Like a lone howling wolf though the forest darkness or a loon call echoing upon a still lake it moves with mystical alchemy transfixing all who are ensnared by its wordless spell.
This is the music gifted to those awake enough to hear it, a private concert of shadow and starlight dancing wildly with the northern lights burning emerald fire in the sky.
This is the anthem of the sleepless.
For ages uncounted it seems I ask myself on nights like these if anyone else on Earth knows this taste? This place of divine worship spun from gossamer twilight and the warm glow of the crescent moon? The sacred simplicity of this nocturnal orchestra?
And so this night I take up company once more with my old friend in the desolate darkness, ethereally beautiful in its melancholy melody that sings along my every nerve.
This long familiar and faithful companion has been my steadfast guide for a lifetime, this night-song playing upon the strings of my heart.
I am haunted by the lonely call of the midnight train, the notes woven through this Old Soul from birth, the lyric-less tune flowing in my veins.
It plays for me the siren song of solitude, its bittersweet symphony cutting through the cool evening air and penetrating deep my spirit like rain on a parched desert, a welcome balm for my aching soul.
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