Sleepless In Sheffield

i recall a cold november night not too long ago last year.

there was somethin very stale in the air but i thought it's just that there was a missin smell that usually balanced that. i think it's called the smell of life.

that night, there was deadness everywhere. there was deadness in the unmovin trees, obstinate in their wisdom. deadness on the streets, with no cars nor people, for even the familiar homeless man was missin from my sight that night. no sign of the drunk students, nor the accompanyin police patrolmen who usually appeared close by. there was so much deadness in the way the night sounded, with no distant crickets nor limpin dogs, and the only conversation i imagined happened was that between the crescent in the sky and the clouds around it. there was deadness even in the way my hot coffee mug breathed into the frosty air, the way my cigarette smoke went right up in a straight solemn line. no wind, no sounds, no smells.

in this state of uneventfulness, i had to further imagine what must have been happenin that night. perhaps not too far away were the sighs of the worrisome wife, waitin for her workin man. also unheard would probably have been the sweet nothings whispered amongst lovers sleepin tight. i thought that in every silent buildin, there were hopeful hearts of men makin inaudible dreams for success, unconsciously in their honest slumber.

and then there was me, the watcher of the night, company for the lonely owls. wonderin how my day was again incomplete, wishin again that tomorrow would be somewhat different, and findin out that nothin would change still.

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Word Of The Wolf today is puckish \PUHK-ish\,

adjective:
Whimsical; mischievous; impish.

"Superficially obnoxious, his friendly, puckish manner endeared him to those who relished the intensity of a good laugh."

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Puckish comes from Puck, the name of a mischievous sprite in
English folklore, from Middle English pouke, "goblin," from
Old English puca.

[A]re not you he
That frights the maidens of the villagery;
Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern
And bootless make the breathless housewife churn;
And sometime make the drink to bear no barm;
Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm?
Those that Hobgoblin call you and sweet Puck,
You do their work, and they shall have good luck:
Are not you he?
--Shakespeare, A Midsummernight's Dream