I wish mornings would never come. They are grey, and not a thick, comforting, smoky grey; they are light bluish whitish grey like being sick and having nothing left in your stomach but water. They are insubstantial, empty, lightheaded. The morning does not reflect the sensuality of the sunset: a sunrise is her pale and listless twin. The crepuscular light at the close of day is more awakening than any shy blush of morning. Dusk; alight and covetous of human love, she draws our eyes to her in beautiful anguish and smiles at our awe. Infected, eyes heavy and skin burning with the fever flame of nightfall, cheeks flushed. Met with such a fervor, such hunger, such lust as to sway never endingly within the folds of a weighted apparition, a haze and a mirage equal to that of our own being. Gently careening through the waves of heat, lingering on the threshold of consciousness, kissing, whispering with sweltering breath and lethargic words. Here we are in a dream, for the world is on fire continuously, alive with a violent and raging and passionate pleasure only to sink heavily back into the pillows of night.