An indulgent poetess sits:
smoking at 11:11 pm,
scarf tied in her long, red hair.
With eyes still lined in black,
she stares into the darkness.
The radio plays on, lyrics undulating,
Crashing into the melodies.
There are noises outside her window: car doors slamming, the train passing by, and voices crying out into the night.
The city streets are still burning despite the night's darkness.
She believes she is an insomniac.
The alarm clock glows green on her fragile white skin, illuminating her lively imagination.
Sleep is impossible tonight.