The Luxury of 1:30am

I'm getting to know this time of night so well. I love the quiet here, the silence that my typing makes, the way that, if I lay me head back whilst lying reading on my bed, there is almost the breath of some other time, some almost memory.
I lay on bed earlier, and watched the closed curtains, and easily imagined that beyond them was not the back gardens of Hove, but the night-black countryside of somewhere in Worcestershire in December, Whitbourne or Stone perhaps. I could imagine lampless lanes, and the dead silhouettes of sleeping houses, breathing the milky silver of stars. Without street lamps, being outside is almost an exercise in a benevolent cosmic panic.
I don't have a job (and after five weeks of not having a job, am still not bored) and don't have to get up early in the morning. The small hours are addictive though. It becomes an effort to go to sleep. I could stay awake and watch 4:00am come, 5:00am... and I am afraid of that because it might be that I might watch dawn come, and there is nothing more terrifying than watching daybreak merely because you've been awake all night.
It's only just 1:30am though.
I might stay awake an hour or two longer.
Oh, the luxury of it all...