4am

There's something beautifully tragic about night radio.

At any other time of the day when I'm driving I listen to CDs in my car. However, every once in a while, on a night like tonight, I find myself driving home very late. My CD always starts to play as I start the car, and for the first minute or so I'll consciously try to listen to it. I don't know why I feel I must listen, but I try. But somehow it doesn't feel right. I change it to the radio.

As I drive, I sail quietly alone through a still, darken, silent world, my car a razor-thin sheet of paper, slicing through the black. Everyone seems to be blissfully and obliviously asleep. Everyone except the radio DJ.

Perhaps it's comforting to know that there's one other soul out there at this hour. I know that someone else is feeling this strangely calming solitude, that they too are quietly pondering why no one else exists.

But do they think about who might be listening? At that precise moment as I think of that person sitting in a DJ booth miles and miles away, are they also thinking of me? Is that why they're sending out their broadcast? Is it a transmission, a way of communicating with the few rogue nightdrivers?

Sometimes I'm tempted to call them, to tell them that, Yes, I heard your message. I'm awake too. Let's be conscious together. Let's talk about the world and music and our lives.

It would be the more intimate than any conversation in the world. Anonymous voices whispering over telephone wire and airwaves.

Do you hear me?
Yes, I'm there.
I knew you were.
I'm always here.
So I am.

And in those moments we're alone together.