The time of evening when the page gets too dark. Lamps
must be lit. Air cleansed by fog inflates the lungs with ease. Scent of fish
dinners frying in distance. No sound but diminutive waves lapping against old
timber. Vessels rocking ever-so-slightly. The sky holds all the light it still
can, as the day takes leave. A crescent moon barely born. Sky and water are
homogeneous; therefore you are free. The chill and madness of last winter does
not penetrate, for she awaits you in a simple room, the golden illumination of its
window in view.
