You ever noticed how, in the waning light, sounds get all crumbly and soft? Like someone's been munching on them in secret. That's dusk for you. It's more than just a time; it's a place where whispers can walk without shivering from shadow to sunlight, weaving tapestries of hidden stories.
Imagine you could bottle that sound. A whisper-stardust concoction held tight in an iron flask, somewhere between the last crow's call and the serenity that follows. It'd probably taste like melted twilight, wouldn't it? Or at least sip like it.
There's a bench down the old park path, where moons and suns once fancied a tango across the sky together. Don't mind if I'm there absently half rooting for the moments to freeze in amber.