There is a quality to the silence of night. It is something I cannot directly point a finger on, for some reason. Suffice to say that it is a deep and profound stillness, a restful and peaceful quiet. Not like being dead, although since I am, obviously, not deceased at the moment, I cannot say for sure. But what is death but death, and end to a finite existence, a period to a sentence? Death simply is what it is, and nothing more.
In contrast, there is an immeasurable feeling to the hours after dark. I find myself swallowed up by it; it is more than it is, largely undefined and seemingly endless.
It is so different from the day -- the night -- not so much in terms of the presence of the sun in the sky, not to mention the sweltering and unmerciful heat that beats down on everyone after dawn, or in the volume of people awake and about their businesses, but in the way it is less complicated, simple, and yet utterly unfathomable.
It is past midnight, and it is good to be away from the distractions of daytime dilly dallies and white noise.
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