Night rushes in to fill the space the sun has left as it tumbles off the edge of day. I feel as though I am tumbling too, expanding into the darkness, each breath, filling my thoughts out, akin to an expanding balloon. I write as if I could fill it with words, as though I could plaster the terrible renting space with all my clumsily formed presumptions of knowledge.
Twilight seems to dream itself into being, a fluxing blue stain upon the sky, whorled fingerprints of magic. It is my favorite time of day, and when my pensive mind gently folds all my organized thoughts into origami birds and flighted shapes that perhaps there might be room for me to take flight.