Riddles

It's 2 am and I'm up. Nothing unusual, I've got used to seeing the clock chime 2 am. I just wish it didn't sound so eerie, but what can I do? Stifle it, gag it, suffocate it? I just hate clocks, they keep hurrying me round there and there while I want to take my time. Because a true lady always takes her time. Or something like that. Tick-toking doesn't exactly remind me of a desirable man either. The thought of him makes me want to throw up, mean old man who life will punish soon enough. But it's Saturday night so it's still early, Saturday nights are spent doing what I like best. Let's say writing is among the things I like best. It's when I can connect with my world, with whatever runs my world, and whatever is my prized possession. And that doesn't even sound like it. I'm trying to explain a riddle with a riddle, I'm not sure even the English language has a name for that. And that could mean a great mind... or a senile one. Or both. But then love isn't very reasonable either. My taste in men could do with an uplift, nothing which brain surgery wouldn't solve. And yet to me it's made sense all along. Not to my mother of course, but that could mean a good thing. It's not as I've been oh so lucky either. But I'm still here. And that should be an achievement. And I'm still a person, so I still have needs and desires and wants. And this time I'm not talking about 'needing' shoes and jewellery. It's needing something so innate that it makes me shudder. But it's Saturday night, and I'll get my fix. I don't ever want the riddle to stop.