Thoughts of 1:17am

As a rule, I think of my room, my house, as a quiet place. Yet here I lie, assualted by snores muffled only by a thin wall, the deep bark of the neighbor's agitated mongrel, and the clicking and tapping of my own ten fingers. Occationaly a car drives by, or at times a worse offender; a firetruck. But probably nothing more coarse than the clang my own fingers, echoing in the soft flanel and fleece that is my room, my house, at night.