Silky darkness all around and inside, too. A wee hour. No angelical moon gazing at us, mere mortals in search of some divine truth impossible to grasp. Elusive colors born from a holy union of lusting shades die with glory. Hushed voices in the background blend in discrete accompaniment. Proper thoughts efface with grace, acknowledging a fair defeat. Dear Old Time falls asleep at last. Divested feelings melt into unshaped space leaving behind a bare soul. A fairy soul, admiring the night’s black beauty ravished by a liquid sun. Immaterial love, pouring gently into a disembodied ocean of light.