I suppose Proust is right. The body is easy to perish when the thought arrives so hold a pen and rein over the words that may soon wither.
So, at 1.30 in the morning, when the sands of Sleep Master should have carried me off to Dreamland, I was still wide awake and religiously tapping the keys of my phone so that my fingers would catch up with my thoughts.
I saved the note as "Love letter." Self-explanatory.
In this day and age, I still long to write someone a love letter. I want to pour my heartfelt and ardent effort of knitting words to profess my love for someone, things that I want to tell him but couldn't lest our cheeks burn in bashfulness like charcoals thrown and smoldering in the fire. With only a pen in my hand and a paper to immortalize my testimony of blinded lovestruck adoration--devoid of any audience that may ricochet me back to my quarter of deplorable self-esteem--I am talking to no one but at the same time to him. Let my love letter be my lark at day, singing solo a hymn of love without ever fearing my lover's conscious eyes.
Pardon the saccharine tone. Garcia Marquez is my latest influence as of late. But true enough, nothing sane comes immediately before and after two o'clock in the morning.