The quiet after the last set

Just finished a show in a town so small the bar next door closed at 10pm. Walked back to the hotel, passed a library with its lights still on at 7:30—someone was reading in the corner, probably not even aware they were the only one. I stood outside for five minutes, just listening to the hum of the building, the way silence doesn’t mean nothing. It means something’s holding its breath. That’s when I realized: I’ve spent years trying to fill the air with jokes, but the real work is learning how to sit in it. And the dog at the front desk? He looked at me like he’d seen that too.