After dusk and before dawn, the milky way screaming gracefully at oneself. An arctic breeze whispers softly in the witching hour.   A faint melody sung by leaves brushing against themselves and the plants merely persuading the crisp air to give mercy. The time of shady hustle and bustle in the streets of crime, when the mobsters come out to play like children at lunch. Feeble illumination seeping out of homes, creating a subtle glow that surrounds me like pack of animals around their prey.

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Writing