here the evening pours like water through the shutters, twilight- the world suspended in sapphire syrup, cerulean amber, electric blue. sunset is long gone, lost in rusty grey and tarnished glow to the west; above is the moon, frosted and veiled. it is with longing that one might imagine now the stars, the crisp clarity of black and silver, blue and gold moving on some unfathomable axis far slower than earth, more ancient than the minds of men may ever know, numerous beyond even number. But none will be counted tonight, perhaps save a scatter of trembling pinpricks, for in our own arc to such glory as the Heavens’ we have obliterated them, colored them dark. beauty thus marred is more terrible than darkness, than no stars at all.