I have always chosen the gloaming as my favorite time of day, though it's the most difficult to write through. The hours bear a slowness persuaded by wines and blushes blending into the bruised azure of winter's night. And tentatively, I think of lovers weaved in the like of a dreamer's dream.
It is in this time of day when forever becomes more than the future on a lover's lips and you gasp to find, suspended over their left shoulder, the palatte used to paint the beginning of the world.
Yet, between the giants of time deferred and myths created in connect-the-dot stars there exists an innumerable amount of time pieces to wrestle an envious dreamer from twilight's keep.
Night sets to a darker blue and there is nothing extraordinary in the banishment of words.