There is a certain time of night that is magical. Some people call it the bewitching hour. Others describe it as a time of fairies. At its onset, parents send their children off to dreamland. The subconscious overcomes its daytime counterpart.
With this shift from day to night, or night to deeper night, with this slip of incandescent sun to subtle moon, the mood changes.
The world hushes. Dark slips into the nooks and crannies, muffling space and time and sound. Movements slow. Voices drop. Eyes blink more slowly, dilating to let in what light they can. People slide closer, mediating the hush, minimizing the space that dark occupies as a third character.
Everything becomes more intimate.
The body sends a rush of chemicals. It attempts to drug itself to sleep. A person must resist the pull, fight the natural tendency to submit to rest. This defiance is an act of love.
In the dark, the quiet, the unknown within the known, or perhaps the unknown within the unknown, in this space being occupied, everything settles. The doped-up, half-off brain yields to less quantifiable forces.
Here, magic exists. Here, in this intimate darkness, it is boundless.