There is a veil above my mind, made of tweed and conifers, Nocturnal as she comes—hail Nocturnal, hail Nocturnal. I hold a pencil in my hand in uttered silence, in defiance, in vain. For, not words, but Nocturnal escapes me. She is Nocturnal—madness, no doubt—, that scraping graphite on paper, never how she promises in my mind, imperfection. She draws me in with imperfection; I draw her imperfections, Nocturnal, Nocturnal imperfections. Insane? You dare call me insane? Nocturnally insane? Well, perhaps sane is inane—and I am Nocturnal.