The night has always been my friend. Not the night so much, but the early morning; between 2 a.m. and 6 a.m. when the world outside of my room is silent.
When everyone else in that external world is at rest. When they are no longer active. When I know they will not interrupt my time being alone. When the only thing that breaks the quiet is the occasional ascending wail of an emergency vehicle.
In years past, before the PC, I would sit at the kitchen table, sip black coffee, smoke cigarettes, and write. I no longer smoke, but still sit at the kitchen table and write. Later, once the external world is no longer at rest, I enter whatever I wrote, longhand, into my PC.
I enjoy the time alone. Not that I am quiet. I always read what I write out loud. I taste each sentence as one would taste the contents of a pot on the stove by taking a small sample on a spoon. The sentence is the smallest thought you can express. Each sentence must “taste” good to me. If not, I line it out. Sometimes, I line out the entire sheet.
Some people who have similar pasts turn to art. Me, I write. And being alone in the early morning hours is something I have come to love.