The end of a myth.
Time slows, old light glows. My eyes hazed by the time awake. In the dark hours the world does fade away. Soft whispers are rattling my brain, I am struggling to stay awake. Fighting with every breath I take. Outside sounds are dim shades far away, far beyond the boundaries of a real thing. The dark has its own breathing, its movements slow, no colours only shades where the blackness fades in greys. The wind does stay giving movement in the blindness of night. It is graced by the soft light in a blue mooned sky dogging the clouds above. It all looks very soft. Like it all would melt with the slightest touch. It’s like being a ghost. In the death of night the sun is a myth. It is gone and has taken its gifts. The warmth, the bliss of fresh sunrays touching your face. It’s gone in to legend, like it never would exist. It’s the end of a tale. Telling a story, the history of day. Every one unique, every one will be missed. Never to be reclaimed. Only remembered and saved. Like they are gifts.