At four in the morning I was awake. I blinked into the darkness, I turned my body left and right, I buried my head in my pillow. I yawned till the tears came, but still my mind was off like a foxhound through the trees, mad and panting after a streak of red fox.

I got up and heated a small saucepan of milk to go with my book. This did not make me fall asleep.

At four in the morning you hear every tick, every bump and rustle, and the night is thick with hopes and regrets.