She stood in the doorway drinking from a bottle clear water that felt like liquor for reasons obscure even to her—failure, jealousy, regret? Confused and sad, looked outside in a sideways glace, beyond the metal door outside the glasspanes that made a wall for the opening into the verandah, the night was a deep inky blue, a blue that reflected the insides. Long forgotten dreams had kept coming back to her for a long time now and she’d become much tired of it all, and wanted ends to meet, but as such there were no ends yet and she or no one for her could do anything about that. The work she had went pretty well but she was also pretty bored and fed up with the banality of all that she’d to face daily. Jobs can give only so much, and you are bound to do them if you want money, money for spending on shit that nobody cares about in the end, shit that they sell overpriced, call it ‘business’ and make money out of your money. Anyway, she listened to Williamson’s Keep it to Yourself and drank on and thought on. Thinking was a favourite pastime of her, in fact that girl did more thinking than anything else. But the thoughts, the thoughts were mostly crap, perhaps because, as she thought, they were about the people, the world around.
The stars mocked in the distance meanwhile and the trees swayed to some unheard tune the breeze sung to them—a lullaby, for they swayed slowly, like you love slowly, like there’s slow music, or the rise of the sun and the water on the bank of a stream, and so it did not have the passion of the storm, and so it added to the blue of things. The water in the bottle got emptied; she guzzled the whole thing, and then for a moment thought it a fun thought if it had been something much tasteful, or poisonous, or at least addictive. Water was none of that, it was just plain bore as that monotonous life that went on without adventure, or any of the more passionate emotions, and so she let loose her hair and pulled up a chair in the verandah and watched the trees sway stubbornly, making fun of her stillness and the moon seemed to wink wickedness, for moon, curved as it was, reminded romance and happiness and giddiness, love, which to her were strangers for an age now. The point of the whole thing was that she was sad beyond bearing and couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stay awake and was so tired of the dilemma that she wanted an escape into a different state of the mind—not sleep nor waking, but which was perhaps then intoxication—and then the music turned to Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan and that was good as intoxication and it felt a lot more relaxed. She took things too much to heart and that it seems has been a great deal of a blunder since the very beginning of human existence.
Anyway, finally, sleep, the enchantress made some magic in the air, more of which JKR could tell you, and laid the blanket of a night’s death over her. What cosmic beauty sleep is, a one-night-stand with death, anew each night.