Some nights I stay up to work while my wife and daughter sleep. Being able to stay up way past midnight has its merits, though it no longer holds the same thrills as when I was a teen (Then: “Movies! Games! Books! The night is mine! Go me! Now: “Five more hours till I have to be up! F—!”).
On one of those nights, after a particularly non-productive hour, I peered outside the window to this sole bus stop lit up in a sea of inky darkness, with what appeared to be someone curled up on one of the benches. That someone turned out to be an article of clothing on closer inspection, but the starkness of it and the solitude it conveyed stuck with me nevertheless.