It is night. Nothing stirs. No one is awake. She finds this amusing. It's not that late. The house has been awake far more later than this before. The light from the table lamp produces a softened, cinematic glow, casting shadows of the chair and table, giving it an exquisite, almost antique, right-out-of-a-story-book glamor. She can almost imagine the cold, billowy winter outside. White snow that silences the entire world. Or at least, her world.

And her, alone. It is a(an?) euphoric feeling. To be truly isolated except for the dim whirring of the computer and the yellow light that can only stretch so far, reveal only so much. Everything else that extends past the glow of the yellow light is enveloped into the darkness. It is as if there is nothing beyond the yellow light, that if she were to put her hand out of the boundaries of the light, it would disappear completely.

A little bubble that belongs to her and her only. No one else exists here. It is quiet. It is quiet.

She feels she has to record down this night of isolation.
Of conclusion.

She switches off the computer, she turns off the light. The black blankets her instantly.

The end.