Sometimes I go out in the daylight, but I prefer the deep blue of night; the way the moonlight reflects off the waters of the park side lake near to where I live. The waters that in this harsh sunlight are shown to be a murky green turn to a deep and mysterious black once the sun creeps behind the skyscrapers and monuments of West London.
In the light hours the sky is pierced by a bright white spike that burns the eyes, but as the light fades the sky turns to that deep blue that I treasure so much, and I can look towards it without feeling pain or sadness.

Night is when life retreats indoors: the children are asleep and the fathers are watching adult movies on the edge of the sofa. Wandering Tesco’s at three o’clock in the morning is a sight: far from the madding crowds, solitary figures wander lazily between the aisles, unhindered by a time or worry. I endure no strange looks at my gothic dispostition:
I am just another stranger, another weirdo wandering the streets of London in the dead of night.

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