It is that time of the night when the sun has slipped beyond the horizon, but still leaves its magical visage hanging in the waves of darkness that seep into the clouds, stealing their substance. There are no sharp lines anymore, they exist only only in the firmness of the light. Now, the horizon is just a water coloring smearing upon itself. Soon the sun share no soul with the color-drained heavens. Reds will drift in the night sky as greyish ghosts, forgetting for one dreamy night their water-giving nature.
--steve buser
--steve buser
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