Glee of the Small Hours

Time creeping in to the small hours. Need to get to bed. Third panel of something I'm working on. 'The country is haunted by poplars' (a boy looking out of a window at night) 'Watch them from the window at night instead of sleep. Milky-spring moon. Cold through open window'. Black ink and pen drawings. rough sketches, the same child by a telephone in the dark nook of a hallway. Window rusted open. That repeated line 'open window, darkened cloud'. Photographs fail and the paper looks yellowed. Attach it to the wall. I need a scanner but mistrust them, as if they will let me down, as they have done before. Give technology no chances. I need to sleep. I feel the glee of the small hours on me.