Quite quietly a little corner to stew and think in whlie the cogs and whirrs go *chirp*, *chirp*.

Quiet fight in a little black spot in a space between the walls while waiting for the light.

Tight writes in a little sack and sock on a table of thoughts wailing through the plight.

White light off a flight of soft stairs with a patter of finding the switch to bring on a word.

Night night and a little glass of milk in a blanket of warm to sleep and dream of dreams and sleeps.