SATURDAY NIGHT.

March 1, 2008

I wrote this one because I couldn’t shake the image of her face. Some calls stick with you—not because they were gory or chaotic, but because of what they didn’t say. It was a typical Saturday night in the city: lights, noise, the usual string of nonsense we called normal. But then came this one—a girl, alone, in a moment that felt suspended in something I still can’t name. I remember getting back to the garage afterward, dropping my gear, and just sitting there. I didn’t talk. I didn’t eat. I opened my laptop and started typing because it felt like the only way to process what I’d just witnessed. Writing this was my way of trying to understand the silence in her eyes, and the way the world just kept spinning like nothing had happened.