It was a night to forget; simple, like most other nights that refused to party ’til the sun takes them away. It was a night for the drunkard, stumbling through moonlit alleys with nowhere to go. It was a night for the nomad, soaring through desert sands with a wind of constant change wrapped around them like the thickest cloak. It was a night for the common labourer turning in after a long day’s worth of toil, one they shoulder with an air of finality, because life is as good as it’s going to get.
There’s always a moment just before magic happens; a moment of breathless anticipation that makes any wait seem so much longer than it really is, but also makes it so much more valuable when it’s over, and it’s like the whole universe inhaled and held it there without knowing or noticing until it remembers what it needs.
Such moments are always on a night to forget, but when one moment finally meets the needs of the heart, a history is born, and suddenly everything is new again.