I Laugh Sometimes A Lot

On the porch, reading and whatnot. A glance at an impatient cell phone screen tells me its 1:15 a.m. This is my favorite part of the day, as scheduled. A dark bark from an unseen dog, the undulating roll of the crickets' exchange (somehow never monotonous or annoying), me snickering and hearing myself--a self-repeating cycle ensues. The night's appropriation is saved for those who can look back on a day of satisfying self-assertion. Me from the morning is a long way off, far enough now for me to wave at without this mocking expression being perceived by the distant figure. The orange haze from the streetlamp filtering through the leaves, the thick impersonal darkness closing my perception into a manageable space, contrasting my consciousness in a way the sunshine never could. This nocturnal weight presses the juices from these long-standing impressions, and I miss her, that quiet girl. Then I laugh. The coincidence of multiple instances of me drinking wine and loving life just a little more than usual is humorously and forebodingly scaring me. But it's funny.
I have a doctor's appointment at 10:15 in the morning. I need to leave time for an only slightly laborious waking-up and those purely necessary hygienic routines. This would be a suitable time for me to go to sleep--but I don't much like suits anyway.