Nothing tonight

I lit my third of the night

It's an artless night tonight. It's one of the last nights of Spring, but as far as the Sun is concerned it's already Summer. The stars are shy in the face of the Sun, and hide from him tonight. The clouds are a fog that the night sky stole from Asphodel, and they give the black-as-black velvet a texture of wool. It's an artless night, and not even the moon is out to see it.

I lit my fourth

This night can't fill me with sorrow, as sorrow is begat of love and loss, and tonight the sky does not move, so it cannot love or lose. Tonight is a regretful night. The same kind of regret I feel when I know I had missed out on a good concert or play.

I lit my fifth

It's an artless night tonight. All there is to hear is the grotesque honking of Canadian Geese, and all there is to see is the metre-tall golems of dust that scavenge under the streetlights for their name. It's such an artless night that all I can write about it is this hideous prose. I would wish I could watch someone dance now, but without the moon to illuminate my dancer, I'm afraid even Isadora Duncan's scarf would appear as nothing more than a stiff silhouette.

I wish I had a sixth!