Between Five and Six
A little grayness collects in the corners like dust blown in on the back of the wind. Haphazardly and in odd places colours fragment and splinter. The day has been dispensed of; used up, sucked dry. “After 5” has a hollow sound; the dull clang of doors, the clatter and scrape of things hastily packed away. The tides change and the station is again flooded. Though imperceptible at first evening is not dissuaded from its slow romancing. Little by little it gelatinously encases buildings, surreptitiously slides itself snugly around trees and sends prying fingers into cracks and drains.
Lights erratically spasm On in windows, making little frothings of bright yellow in spite of the black. Your features are softened by a tungsten halo. No one gives thought to the miracle of our electric lives; car lights, street lights, room lights, porch lights flicker flicker flicker and burn.
Moths circle futilely, navigating by our false moons. We are very comfortable in this unnaturalness; Darkness is more foreign than our artificial light.
Night draws itself around us. Accepting, enveloping, smothering. Day is a time, Night is a place.