His nights are made of
philosophy
and fever dreams
an endless sequence
        of sunsets
        and
        midnights.
He finds insight in darkness
when others are sleeping
the hours slipping away while
        the clock
              counts
                    up.

        He's only awake for the sunrise
        if he hasn't gone to bed yet.

He writes erotica in sweatpants
and listens to the shouting from the bar down the street
while his stereo plays melodic rock that came on CDs he borrowed from friends.
Later, he answers questions about human sexuality
and discusses the possibility of other planes of existence.
He wonders if angels have free will,
and whether that means God intended Lucifer to fall.

        His favourite topics are
        religion and theology,
        languages, myths,
        psychology and culture,
            people,
                and sex.

"I'm not worried about how people see me.
I like to fuck," he says.
"That doesn't make me stupid."

He writes essays on gender roles and his favourite works of literature.
He listens to the night wind
and thinks about walking on moonlight.
Sometimes he ponders throwing himself from his balcony:
he doesn't want to fly,
but he likes the idea of falling.

He keeps sex toys and batteries in a bag under his pillow
and a box of condoms in the drawer of his desk.
He masturbates while contemplating demons and whores,
knife wounds and thunder and other people fucking.

        "I never bother
        watching porn.
        That's for people
        who can't
        think."