The nights were the hardest. It was in the darkness that she was unable to find her light. The light that refused to shine, the light that had never really existed. She kept waiting for its glorious arrival, for it to come and save her drowning soul. It never came. Her soul almost drowned but survived, drowned but survived – until the gap between living and existing was sealed, until she could no more make sense of the real world. She lay awake day after day, night after night. The mornings were bearable. Monotonic. The afternoons were hazy. Monotonic. The evenings were apprehensive. Monotonic. The nights were the hardest. The nights were different, each day, like the clouds that found innovative ways to hide the moon’s brightness. The moon couldn’t move. The clouds could. The sliver of light that peeped from behind the outlines of the monstrous clouds were the only proof that the moon existed ; that a living soul still thrived in her body. She did not know this. She was not one with this.