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When the sun sets, you don't always know what's next. I mean, you do - night follows day, always. But what will the night bring? As the street lights flicker, they illuminate a world that isn't the same as the world of the daylight hours.
Bathed in orange shadows, shifting shines and the distant glitter of planes and stars and watery eyes, the streets aren't what they were before. Except that they are. The night is just another filter, another shade, another hue. Everything that once was, remains. What you don't see now - it's still there under the velvet softness of night. It'll still be there in the morning. Shadows are not an absence, they're an augmentation. And yet we hold out for the morning. We close our eyes and enter the kaleidoscopic cocktail of subconscious - in stasis until the morning breaks like a glass on a stone kitchen floor tile, with a gasp and an unnatural resonance. For a moment, the whole world ceases to spin - everyone at the party stops to listen to the very silence of them stopping.

Humans are frighteningly resilient, you know. Somehow we keep on living, unspeakable things happen, horrifying things, sad things, and yet - we live. We breathe, our hearts beat, we fart and shit and sweat, and we continue to exist right up until we don't. We make new memories and become new people, but even butterflies remember when they were caterpillars. In the middle, they are nothing more than mush. Soup inside a crispy shell, not sleeping but decomposing and reforming. And they still remember being caterpillars.