I wrote Nocturne N°3 during one night that lasted seventeen hours—one of those long nights in winter when the sun barely rises in the day. It is a nocturnal ode to my Muse who slept through all seventeen hours of the night, during which time I wrote franticly, passionately; for even the memory of cradling her in my arms is pure euphoria. And all that I ask out of life is that it be constant and unending euphoria. And so I write. Now if you love this book unconditionally, then I will love you unconditionally. If, however, you think this book needs a proper edit to be good, remember that I wrote it in a spree—one nocturnal, hypomanic spree—and stopped the moment my Muse woke up. For loving her is another type of poetry.