The day is a loud thing. It is full of movement and noise. The cars. The people. The telephones. It is a long race. It wears you down.
Then the sun goes. The light softens. The sound goes with it. One by one, the lights go out in the windows across the way. The houses sleep. The city breathes a long, slow breath.
This is the best time. The quiet. The cold air comes through the open window. It smells of dust and darkness.
I sit and I watch. The streetlights come on. They are small pools of yellow. The cars that pass now are few. Their headlights cut a quick line through the dark. They are going home. There is no hurry.
The night is not about doing things. It is not. It is about being. The thoughts that raced all day now walk. They find their order. They are not in a hurry either.
It is a good feeling. To be awake when the world is asleep. To own the quiet. To feel the cool air and know that for a little while, there is nothing that needs to be done. There is just this. The stillness. The peace. This is the best part of the day.
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