The night air was intoxicating to my seven year old self. I would take some thick novel and set to work on it in the dead of night. Reading by the light of a street lamp so that my Mom wouldn't catch me still reading at two in the morning.
I remember how the screen would catch the gold of the lamp spilling pools of molten lava across my bedroom floor. It was my street lamp, and the thick yellow light it cast was mine too. It was hazy at midnight glowing in the same caramel chrome against a dark chocolate sky.
I knew I needed to sleep when the lonely sound of the train whistled softly to me across my town. Three in the morning every day it would signal that the time for adventures across the sea would have to wait another day. I would slip off and dream of jungles with street lamps scattered around the lions.
