A Wakeful Night in Letters of Renaissance

There are other places in the night, lesser than everything but loneliness. Night in its shroud seems to prolong and carry gently every minute at a much greater length when loneliness visits. Loneliness holds up the body as though it were effortless as a large bundle of wildflowers and meanders in the gray blues of the starlight. It never exhausts nor seems to really touch the landscape as it travels toward the heart with bare feet. The grasses seem to only whisper about its soles and ankles.
If it would not guide me down such awful chasms, it would be a being I would dream of secretly and wish to kiss.
But I dream of only troubled things.
Troubled things and ends that do not meet.
Strangers with true faces that I am sure do exist.
There are no places to go in the quiet hours, the quiet is only a solid reminder of what we lack in our time and space. Wishing not to disturb anyone, we become ghosts of sorts. Watchful and awake. Haunted ourselves by the existence we partake in, and so lingering in vague desires and hopes that which wrongs us soon vanishes.