On evening.

The fixed smile of the sun stays in place as the sun slides, as fast as it can, and the sky, the sky which had been the colour of cornish paint, darkens.

Shadows creep from behind the bookcases and from under the sofa, where all day they had been curled up, listening sly to thoughts, whispering draeams, as dust.

The shadows whisper dark promises and quick answers. The sky darkens in shame at the promises and night is here. If you fell off the earth now, you’d fall away from light and into the soft velvety night forever. The dark feels like liberation from silent internal battles which raged all day long behind your smile as fake as the sun’s.

Darkness hides stains.

Darkness hides dirt and bodies and the consequences of broken pledges.

The weight of all those pointless silent battles. One more, one, ‘what harm’ whispers the shadows, hidden in the night. Fall off and stay hidden. Dark thoughts, my friend.

But tomorrow the cleaner will come.
<img src=”http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/9c/Water_drops_in_setting_Sun_light.JPG)

Tomorrow the cleaner will come with elbows and mops and bleach. A tonic.

Consumer salvation

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