Nightowls
I love the night.

It's quiet moments of solitude, or 300 bodies pressed together on a dance floor, night has a certain charisma all it's own.

1 am. I should be getting my beauty sleep, because Benefit Eye-Con doesn't come cheap, but I've found more and more of late that I can't seem to make myself give up this blissful time, when possibilities seem endless. Night casts a certain diffusive light on reality. At night, anything seems not only possible, but hell, I feel like I could go out right now and take what I wanted by the balls, uncaring and exhilirated. I ENJOY the night. As much as I love the sweltering heat of a summer day, I love a warm, sweaty southern night, one's where you sweat as you lay in bed, flipping the pillow every few minutes for a second of coolness before the invasive heat takes over. Hot is sexy, if that makes any sense at all. It's just the feeling of walking onto your porch in your underwear, and still being so hot that the least stirring of breeze is like a lover's touch. I have this dream of moving to an island, just casting all society's chains away and spending my nights on a porch with a thatched roof, or lying on the sand, drinking tequila and reveling, no, that's not the right word. Languishing, luxuriating, being violated by the heat. That's what I want, to wake up at noon every day, write until dusk, and then bask in the afterglow of the day.

I guess a man who shared my insane love of the night, and the heat, wouldn't be untoward.