Being the insomniac that he was, it was hard for him not to be a nyctophiliac. His nights have always been his signatories, they’ve all seen his stories, remembered the morose that his dormiveglia was, drained by dreamlessness to be more dreaded than what once was colonized by nightmares. His days only defined by their nights, his love for the darkness is now his measure for light, an eigengrau, his journals turned to noctuaries; noctuaries that overflow with her name and he’s almost certain her journal can’t even spell his. Stargazing floods most of his nocturnal time being a noceur and he’s taken to be a ceraunophile and selenophile, almost without his knowledge. He’s so addicted to the night that he steps out when the world tucks in, to blow the moon a kiss, to lie beneath the fiery blanket of the stars and he sings the moon to sleep almost every matutine, watching the insomniac stars wash away in Apollo’s waking waves. Yet, he still waits for Ra’s imminent slumber every dusk to get to what he has known as home and it’s been long since he replaced his dormiveglia with his nyctophilia for he felt it was better to be able tell his noctuary of things he’d done than lie to it of the dreams he’d have liked to have.