I remember when I used to spend long hours staring outside my window, even though I had to use my bed as an awkward step stool. The nightstand was thoughtlessly placed in front of the window, so I couldn't reach it in any comfortable way. This was not the only grievance; the room was a poster for poor placement, as the vent was also obscured by the bed, making it a prison of extreme temperatures. I frequently couldn't sleep due to heat, so I watched the sky and read my books. The birds were always with me. Every night, I would hear them outside the window, chirping in a way that some would call singing. I don't think it's singing, not at all. It's something else that I don't really know what to call. I would always hear them, a much more welcome sound than the rhythmic hum of the house. A dull and low hum that I so fervently detested. It was like a heartbeat in a disconcerting way. I think it was there every night. Hum… Hum… Hum… If you had to listen to that, you would understand how I prefer the birds. The birds likely had no awareness of my existence, but they were better than those I lived with. I would wake up late and never receive a "good morning," unless you count when they start to say it out of habit, but catch themselves and say "good afternoon," in that contemptuous manner. Eventually, no-one would say anything. The thrown-up eyebrows became the only acknowledgment I received. I came to prefer the late nights I spent alone, waiting for them eagerly. Depending on the hour, the sky would look different. Sometimes it was tinged a red colour. It made me think of smoke. A house on fire might make the sky that colour. Flames smothering the sky. I don't have the foggiest idea what kind of birds they were. When I think about it, I realize I don't care that much. I liked them for their noise, not who they were. That bird could have been considered a criminal in his little bird community, but what do I care? As long as he kept his chirping, his sins mean nothing to me. I like birds. I really do. The birds were up with me, reading about so many lives. Holmes, Raskolnikov, Macbeth, and so many others filled my dark room with their words. I liked the cold nights. The hot nights were unbearable. Sticky. My clothes would feel damp. Regardless, I refused to sleep without a blanket. No matter the temperature. 26, 28, even the thirties. I guess I kicked it off in my sleep, but I didn't like to be without it. I can't comprehend the reason, even now. I loathed the summer. The heat was only one of the many reasons. Summer was awful. Even now, I still regard summertime with disdain. I hated that hum the house made. Hum... Hum... To Hell with it! The only noise I can accept is the birds.