It's transient, it's inbetween.
It smells tangible, yet it's not really present.
It looks like tommorow and it looks like today.
It's the line where they meet, it's the point where we fade.
Dusk creeps up, silently stilling the birdsong
It falls like a bridge... between now and then.
It tells us we're almost there.
It lulls us to sleep.
It's my favourite time of day. If in fact you can call it that-
-when 'day' is gone and night meets its match.
Dusk is a time for reflection, a time for preparation, a time to admit
that that's just it. You've had your hours.
The minutes are gone like the light.
Like a nesting bird, and a sleepy firefly, Dusk stills the heat and
brings the coolness of night.
Or infact of flight. In our dreams.
Dusk is neither here nor there.
It slips by unoticed.
It slips by.