The city at night.

As I lay here in bed, I can smell the heavenly smell of the Sanctuary sleep-therapy oil I rubbed on my chest, and sprinkled on my handkerchief. I can hear the constant rush of cars, driving by in desperation to be home already; the haste of the driver's journey only broken by traffic lights and signals. They sit there waiting, their engines growling with impatience.

Occasionally I can hear a distant rumble of a monotonous voice as a couple walk by, they too are impatient to be home. As I shuffle about willing sleep to take me, vehicles are still fighting a futile race against time, and repel oblivious pedestrians, of whom they are forced to sound their horns to. I let the duvet embrace me, protect me, and drown out their sounds...

Sudden moments of peace are rare, but always blissful to my ear, only to be broken by the sounds of heavy lorries accelerating and loud music coming from the cars of young, carefree, rave-music enthusiasts.

Through the gap under the blind I purposely left so the early morning sun would caress my face when I wake in the morning, the taxi headlights peer. The headlight's are an invasion, an unwelcome artificial light; a reminder of the never resting city. The never resting city with never resting needs. The sirens of the services invade my thoughts, as their piercing cries demand clear road lanes. Throughout the night they'll continue working, they never know when the sleepless city may need their help.

Every moment of peace more blissful than the last, the ticking of the clock from across the room, a continuous unchanging noise I gladly welcome. In the distance keys are jangled, doors are opened, doors are closed; I'm not the only one with sleep in mind.

And as the rest of the country begins to quieten for the night ahead, here the night-time dwellers come out instead. Intoxicated, and ready for a night of dance and drink; I'll expect to hear them walking back later, only louder and slower and even less mindful of the sleeping few.

And yet for now. I lay here, inhaling the aroma of ylang ylang, frankinscene and patchouli, envious of the old and young who are sound asleep, perfectly unaware that the big city never stops, never sleeps, and never quietens down.
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