The night is for the word, for soft and easy whispers, for an estranged lover indulged for want of light, light, light. The night is for the word, devout, grim, lying low between a piercing scream and a crinkling sheet two doors down the hall with something underneath. The night is for the word, because the sun (And some 3.8 x 10^26 watts of power/sec) would cook the meaning out, leaving nothing to digest. The night is for the word, for all that makes life live like memory, loss, and change Change, Change. The word is for the night, for waging war on all that inky silence.
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