It’s that languid time between October and winter. The morning light turns a magical hue. Not too harsh, and not too mellow. It’s there, pouring in, blotting through the air, bathing the emptiness in shafts of mellow warmth. The kind that makes you want to stick your face in it and reach out like a tendril does to its source of life. The dust shimmers, dancing in discordant rows, to the sound of nothingness. The light touches every surface, creeps into every nook and gives everything a dappled, pleasant look. It lights up the dark, breathes life into vacant spaces and creates a picture in your head. Of a time and space long before you, of memories you were never a part of, of stories you never witnessed. Light is the missing link. Especially in these twilight zones. The in-betweens. The transitions that always herald a coming back to life. Between then and now, night and day, fall and winter, the old and new. Light does that. It drags you in, injects you with life, invigorates you quite literally makes you come alive. From what you once were, and the person you are about to be.
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