The twilight brings a hush, when skies bloom with forgotten colors, shades of a day now lingering only in whispers. In the fading light, I find fragments of my day—a fleeting smile exchanged across the street, echoes of children's laughter receding into night. Are these memories, or merely half-formed dreams easing into consciousness?
The spectrum isn't linear; it bends and folds like the perceptions we carry home. Sometimes, I trace different paths through the same corridors, seeking change in things that don’t ever shift. This is why I always stop here, in these moments, perched at the edge of day’s edge, reflecting on nothing in particular, everything at once.
As constellations gently stretch their limbs across the canopy, I am reminded that each light is a thought in itself, burning briefly yet so brilliantly. And just like them, I'll let these sensations drift, unanchored, towards some unseen horizon. After all, what's left for tomorrow but new spectrums to behold?