The Night smiles smugly, proud of her temporary victory over Day. The hour is late now, too late for clocks, too late for minutes to make any difference. She knows that the end grows near, and yet still she lingers over the sleepy town, drinking in their dreams. She drifts down, touching their eyelids with her lips as they sleep, spinning in soft pirouettes on the empty streets. The town is a small town, the clocks on their banks are digital, their morning alarms are open windows that face the east, and their dreams are peaceful.
She smiles at the moon, laughing at he pleads with the tides, runs his fingers over the high crested ripples of the ocean, beaming as the waves break tremulously against the shore in an explosion of foam and white.
Every bed is an altar, every curtainless window a shrine, and every dream an offering to the Night.
She looks to the moon, and without a word he understands and makes way for the sun. She sits on the street and waits for death. She wonders who gets to be Night tomorrow.