I watched some clouds lose their color tonight. I was sitting at my desk, with its mirror, and I saw the clouds through my mirror. I ran outside, because I knew that they were going to die soon. I stood outside for ten minutes. They were golden when I saw them, but they turned pink, pinker, then orange. The sky was navy blue. Orange and navy blue, colors I think of as sports or official colors. There they were, together in stripes, in nature. The stripes of clouds cracked open like water split by a drop of soap. They fragmented and became dried white foam on a beach. Then the color died down in subtle steps like a sliding light switch. Off.
I am looking outside through my mirror and it is night in my mirror. The day is dead. I am growing to like the day and disliking the night. A beautiful night is never suddenly beautiful like a sky full of daylight. People say, “Oh, what a beautiful night!” when they are in the city surrounded by street lights and in love. The night is tough and unwelcoming. It makes familiar places unknown. People store bits of day inside their homes in the night, rations to get them through. Some people never even turn off their lights.