Late at night, possibly 49 minutes past midnight, a casting pink light leaks through a window. Who would be up at this time? Oh, it is just a 12-year-old, writing in her notebook. What would she be writing? Who knows. Maybe she is writing a poem, or a story, or she is just jotting down ideas about her day. Do I know this girl? Heck no! I barley know her- we have never met! You could say I am a stalker. Do I at least know one thing about her? I do- and that is that she is a young author.
The pink light has drained out, being replaced with the blue shadows of the dark overcast night. The clouds roll in, then a clap of thunder follows them. Somehow stunned by the sound, the pink light returns. I hear mumbling coming from instead the house. Then I hear footsteps- heavy and angry footsteps- coming to the window. The 12-year-old yanks back the curtain, revealing the clouds. She just shrugs and walks back to her comfy and warm bed. But the pink light doesn't go out- it's still there. I peek inside. The girl is writing in her notebook again. Maybe she is writing about tonight- what she was doing at this very moment.
The soft overcasting light of the moon finally begins to find its way through the unbreakable clouds. The night is no longer dark- a light overcast night. The pink light that was pouring through the window was now gone. Looks like this young author is done for this night, and there will be more tomorrow night.