The Night is not young. The night is not old.
With the stars washed out by the glare of fluorescent light, the night is all one moment. Save for the glow of your digital clock, there is nothing to mark the time. To your brain, to your body, it is all one moment. The revelers gabble about what happened earlier in the evening, as if it were hours ago, but it was a minute ago-- right? You have no idea. You will not remember this night. You will remember nights like this, one after another, and they will all be one night, one moment. This is the eternity you craved.
And somewhere, a poor slob is stuck in his office, night after night, coffee at hand, and everything blurs together. The night never ends. The work never ends.
And down on the ground, the night watchman takes a few uppers and keeps staring at nothing, at the yard that never changes, at the intruders that never come.
They will never come.
Cars pass, the headlight glare washing light over the building. Where are they going? What business do they have? They are moving, but they, too, are caught in the long moment of a city night.
This is why we sleep. This is why we yearn for the dawn.
We cannot endure eternity.