Midnight is an uncanny time.

You don’t want to be out and about.

SUNFLOWERS BY HARRY HAWKE 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 107

I can’t sleep again. I haven’t slept for three weeks. It doesn’t feel great. I blow my nose so hard my head deflates. I leave the house, lightheaded. As I turn the key I tell my possessions (not many, but enough) to stay safe.

My watch chirps midnight. Midnight is an uncanny time. Unless you’re all jollied up with a destination, you don’t want to be out and about.

Walking past the nightclubs, five meters from the door you’ve got the bouncer, a couple of smokers, the bins, and one of those fire escape ladders. Ten meters you’ve got the main road, a kebab shop with a nail clinic on the floor above, and a car with two undercover police officers. Fifteen meters is when you see the drop-off of the recognizable, when people are less frequent, and the buildings lurch over you. At that point you either turn back or push forward into the night.

It’s sort of a risk-reward system. Only deep into the night ca…