What position does a city take at night? What moves must it make? Where will her willing hands take all of our mental concubines? And what form will our desires take? Will she remain sexual and primal or toss in the formal and the neon? Will she flirt? Or will she slap in the face, all whilst making direct eye contact and speaking in some Eastern European dialect underneath a half-crescent smile? Will she be the Isley Brothers or mimic the Chemical Brothers?
How does this differ from the day?
The best of all worlds seem to be most alive when the least of us are conscious–awake or otherwise.
The colors are brighter. The monsters more frightening. Images clearer. The shadows deeper. The angels more beautiful. The smoke more acrid and the drink more potent. Machines are angrier. Cities more dimensional and layered. And less linear. Lines disappear. Fields show themselves. Truths. Not lies.
The courageous are quiet. The whispers are brave and bold. The dance hot and close. The people sharing moments in ways they won’t when their God is watching them during the day. The moment more important because there are fewer with each passing tick of the tock.
The night is where we can be ourselves. She allows for it. The hearts of children are free. The minds of the masses are at rest. Night has no time.