Ahh, the glory of night. Actions hidden in darkened anonymity, the world being whatever is created by your light, and your actions. So much to be accomplished, so much potential. What do we desire? What do we seek after? It's all available, it can all be had: complete stillness is out there, or continuous motion if you so desire.
But what's that? Our periphery catches some glancing blow of light! Morning shining off the sky and back-again. But just a sliver now, there's still time, there's still time. Cards and movies, dinners and dancing we can have it all! No need to panic, no need to rush.
Now it seems the windows allow a fain glow, some tricky apparatus funneling in that dreadful substance. Photons pounding off the corridor and into our own private world! Vague objects in the blackness begin to take shape, forms of the formless. Still we persist, and our night carries on. What last adventure do we desire, what last story to reveal in before the morning takes us?
Light is pouring in, obfuscating our generated opaqueness. Reality forcing itself upon us, coming out of hiding and running full sprint at our consciousness. Still we cling to those last shadows before dawn, the last moments of fantastical imagination. But now it is too late, it is over. The sun opening its screens against the night, the windows pulsing with new found energy. No longer are even the corners shrouded in that gentle darkness that so endured them to our wild imaginings. Soon life will start anew around us, and we are left at the mercy of other's realities. The day has begun, and our hope waits in slumber for the night.