When the city falls asleep, it’s as if I’m starting to live for the first time. During the day there are too many eyes, responsibilities and fuss, but at night the world becomes mine. I can listen to the sounds outside the window as if it were rare music: the rare bark of a dog, someone’s quick step on the asphalt, the crackle of an old refrigerator in the kitchen. I put all this into my “collection”.

I remember nights by their mood. Here’s one where I’m sitting on the windowsill and drinking tea, looking at the empty street. The warmth of the mug warms my palms, and the coolness lingers outside. Another night is when I just lay down on the floor and turned on the music at minimum volume. The sounds dissolved so softly that it seemed as if they were floating right through the air.

Nights don’t require you to be someone special. You can be tired, disheveled, sad or happy - and the night will accept you. There is something very honest in this.

I am sure that when the years pass, I will not have a collection of antiques or coins. But I will have a collection of my nights. And each of them will be stored in my memory as vividly as others are stored in old photographs.