och jag växte upp snabbt, från min barndom var det allt—jag föddes redan slagen

då tänker du tyst och skriker högt, memorerar hela jävla monologen som skrevs för din inre röst,

He cherished night-time. Something in him had grown wary of the moon, not just.. distrustful but like the light from it was lackluster. In a way, he'd grown to resent it, and in the same vein, night itself—while loving stars, and the cool, the respite from the torment of day-time's wicked heat. So he loved it, and he hated it, and he hated loving it as much as he loved to hate it.

But in a way, it had grown.. old. He'd seen many nights. He'd seen many days, too, but he'd romanticized the night a lot more, finding safety and mystery in its moonlit fog and the grayed-out colors, and the shadows, and.. and in how the starlight glittered coldly upon snow-crystals, frost riming everything, and it was beautiful, but... As he stood there, staring at the near-gray thistle flowers spread about like the desecration of something beautiful, he realized that he was as tired of it was he was of himself. He doubted he'd ever forsake his love of winter for the love of some other season, but his love of night... Wasn't it time to appreciate the day, some?

With its sweltering heat, swarms of flies, and the sweat seeping out of every pore? Nothankyou. And things had a different mystery in the darkness, like you weren't exactly sure what you were seeing, and.. well, maybe that was just kidding yourself. Fooling yourself, or.. someone else, or..

So the night was full of deceit and lies and forsaken promises.

But still, he liked the way the humidity went up from the dryness of day, how the air was soothing and cold against a sun-torched skin, and how it felt wetter in his lungs.. like it was more alive, and made him more alive, and really, it wasn't until the sun went down that he moved again. Flanks rising and falling, sweat marks lining them where it had dried in the relative cold, and the mind beneath the skull sparking back into life. And that was when he realized that he'd grown to resent this time of day—hah, it felt illogical to think, but at the same time he was fairly certain it was a correct statement.

Whatever.

Someone was moving up ahead, and his slow walk ceased entirely as he stopped to peer at her. She was.. she was coming out of a brook. Dripping wet. Absolutely soaked.

It looked like a nice thing to do, and before he knew it he was ambling closer, drawn by curiosity.

[ @[Tiva] ]