Silent Hour sits with a notebook on its lap or in front of a computer. Its pen is fine-tipped and black, its current notebook is also black and almost finished, and the computer is rather old.
Silent Hour is mostly night.
There is a window in Silent Hour’s room. A blue neon light appears from time to time across the street. It comes from a recording studio, whose owner seems to also prefer the night. Silent Hour misses the light when it’s not on.
Silent Hour is a bookmonger and a wordcubine. It reads, writes, watches.
It is thread wrapped around a spinning wheel.
It howls with the wolves with whom it wants to be.
Silent Hour is me.