It's a Tom Waits kind of evening: low and grey and hanging heavy on the floor like smoke from an arson fire. Seventeen ghosts lie on the floor and one more hangs from a bare light bulb in the ceiling. A mattress in the corner rests on a makeshift box-spring of paperback novels with the covers torn off. This town is the opposite of other towns; all the bars and clubs are open in the middle of the day and no other time. All our work is done in darkness and our celebrations are in light. Been here less than a year and I can't convince myself it should be any other way.

The town tucks in at sunrise for about 4 hours. Those that wish rise in the afternoon to cavort and laugh and frolic. The length of the festivities is not the measure, but the ferocity. These hours pass quickly and it is time again to rest. When the sun sets the town arises to industry. There are not many jobs here that a person cannot perform in low light.

Not all choose revel for their midday waking hours. Those that don't gather in crowds instead gather their thoughts. The people here are unlike any I've met before. Those who share my age have lived twice as many days; two mornings for each of my mornings and two nights for each of my nights. Mistakes are made, from minor to grave, the better part in daylight. The harm done overall is less, as I've observed, but truer, as there is no darkness to muddle the focus of passions and the intent of each flung emotion.