Half-Night Voices

A quarter-finished drawing on the floor; a half-inked man drinking from a pencilled bottle, whilst a pencilled woman stands at a two-line window looking out onto a still white paper landscape.
The windows of my room are open, the curtains half shut. A towel hangs from the windowsill. Out of the window I see a sliver of light from some unfixed window on a half-distant house.
I hear the sound of voices from the night, teenage girls howling like wolves in somebody's garden.
I light incense and think about my clothes I need to take from the washing machine. The album has finished and I watch the curve of my white guitar leaning against the precarious stacks of compact discs.
I imagine, in the night outside my window, the sound of trains or the sea or a distant country road. I hear none of these of course, just the sound of those teenage voices, laughing still, lost halfway through the first half of the night.