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Nighttime

Sometimes, well past the hour at which my host-parents retreat upstairs, after the car horns have subsided and the lonely stray dogs have let out their final, somber barks, I lie awake on my ever-absent host-bother’s bed and ponder nothing in particular. As the serenity of the moment washes over me, I occasionally feel that characteristic floating sensation so unique to late night contemplation. In the gray halflight of the room, reality itself seems to become unfixed, transforming the smooth, wooden edges of my host-brother’s wardrobe into sine waves, an IKEA-grade armoire into an intricately detailed piece of expert woodworking. The stuffed snail on the bookshelf gradually warps into unsavory shapes and seems to trade in its derisive smirk for an expression far more sinister. My waterbottle, set atop the desk, metamorphosizes into a pane of stained glass, distoring the rays of light that pass through its murky interior, haphazardly refracting fragments of the streetlights onto the ceiling. Regular objects become bizarre pervesions of themselves and uncertainty thrives like a weed in a flower garden. I believe that it is during these instances, that I have the best moments of introspection. Perhaps it is naivety bred by the late hours of the night, but sometimes I swear I can feel the rhythmic pulse of a neuron here or there.