Insomnia in Prague

Prague at four in the morning has a specific silence. Not empty — never empty — but the noise has thinned to its essentials: a tram on the Nový Svět line, the river against the weir, a dog barking once and then thinking better of it. I'm awake because I'm always awake. This is not a complaint. It's a schedule nobody asked for and I've stopped fighting. The city was built for people who slept better than I do. The spires look best in morning light, the bridges in the golden hour, the castle at dusk. At four AM, everything is the same shade of grey-blue, and the tourists are in bed, and the streets belong to me and the street cleaners and the foxes, who are bolder than you'd think. I walk to the river. Charles Bridge without people is a different bridge. The statues have space to breathe. St. John of Nepomuk, blackened, stares down at the water where they threw him in for keeping a secret. Patron saint of silence. I could use a patron saint of sleep but I'll take what's offered. The Vltava moves slowly here. Wide, patient, unimpressed. It has seen six hundred years of bridges and still doesn't hurry. I lean on the railing and count the swans. Four tonight. They sleep on the water, tucked into themselves, drifting slightly downstream and then correcting, half-conscious, the way a body knows it's being carried and adjusts without waking. I'm jealous of swans. This is a new low. Coffee at five from the place on Říční that opens early for the bakers. I am not a baker. They let me in anyway. The coffee is too strong and the pastry is still warm and the woman behind the counter has stopped asking why I'm up. She knows. You can see it in people, the sleeplessness. Something in the eyes that's been open too long. The sun will come up at six-thirty. Prague will look beautiful. I'll be tired. These things are not in conflict.