It is late. I am beat. I found a poem that sort of captures my mood tonight.
Saint Marty is ready for a drink and a long nap.
The Coming of Light
by: Mark Strand
Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine
and tomorrow's dust flares into breath.