Digital Sunshine, Analog Melancholy...

     There's a unique feeling you can get from sitting at a computer screen at 2:23 in the morning. It is not the happiest, nor does it give one the dejected feeling of detachement. It is a state of being set apart from the real world and can only be experienced around 2:23 in the morning.
     I'm huddled around the warmth of the computer screen, its refreshing glow exciting every nerve in my ocular cavity, and I can't say I've felt more alive. How can this feeling possibly take place in this one place out of all the other places one should hope to experience this sensation? Why not a mountain top; or on a sandy beach; or even sitting on a bench watching men, women, and children, hoping to get just a glance at subtleties only a personal companion might notice? There's something about the silence of the night accompanied by the low hum of the heatsink that sets the heart ablaze and the mind wandering off the predefined staff into a melodic groove that is not a contraditory tune but one of a complimentory nature.
     The coffee next to me is a bit on the cold side and is no longer desirable enough for me to even think of drinking. I had barely made it moments earlier, but I can only imagine the short time my attention was occupied was enough for the effect of this feeling to dissipate the warmth from my mug. This ever consuming feeling pains me the more I am in contact with it, which could be the reason there is so much significance to 2:23 in the morning.
     Building up to this moment in time is a zealous pilgrimage only to reach its fervent climax, and to then be dropped swiftly into an aperture of despondency.
     Speaking of which, a glance at the clock next to me points out that it is now 2:28. How long have I been abscent from this warmth? When did my thoughts change? Maybe this isn't a good time. I quickly erase my email to her and go to bed...