Time stands still. The witching hour has come again, and all is black and grey but my little room, which is awash in a blaze of ruddy light. I am perched on a chair, furiously slinging paint onto the wall. A patch of my cheek is stiff with a pearly white blotch. Streaks of red and black rush frantically up my arms, making them seem bruised and bloody but somehow still functioning. Its midnight but I’ll keep going. The hour is a heavy velvet weight; it engulfs me and holds me away from the rushing world. Here I am untouchable and unseen. Before I notice at all, it is past three. Even now I am still standing, swiftly leaving silky lines across my endless canvas. I whisper to my subject that he is lovely, and the quick rasp of my own voice sends a shiver through me. I am fighting the sparkles in the corners of my eyes. I don’t want to sleep. Sleep would make all of this a dream, a fleeting fantasy that I had touched something unknown. I ignore the voices that seem to call my name. They are the wakeful, wry, and watchful. I keep this fire burning, setting the darkest corners ablaze. I won’t stop, not now. As the morning pushes through my moonlight love, it finds me collapsed, but still lucid, on the floor. I look up into the chocolate eyes of my angel and smile. I haven’t wasted a moment.