I never could stand the daylight.
The harsh glare, the endless vista.
Being outside in the sun underscores the insect-like nature of human existence, these pathetically insignificant creatures crawling around on the skin of a stone ball hurdling through space on a pointless trajectory.
Daytime is so unspeakably depressing that I can’t bear to be out in it.
The night is a different story.
The night is populated by a separate order of being altogether.
Whereas day dwellers swagger blindly about with delusional self-importance, the superior night creatures are more cautious, more circumspect.
There is far less talking, and then only in whispers.
Movements are deliberate, conservative.
The sky is closer and more intimate, the colors of the world more subtle.
At night the Old World comes into itself.
It is not gone.
It is only waiting.