25 minutes of utter peace.

Here lies the body of 25 minutes of utter peace, stuffed in a box in the ground until tomorrow. The time when the horizon turns a faint embarrassed pink, but the clearest sky a man has ever seen still boasts a healthy blue complexion, and the sun absconds - resting behind some tower block now - while the moon grabs the eye like never before, almost full yet bright, bright and brilliant. All is still and every thing is calm, and the distant traffic sounds off like the sea, crush and hush, crush and hush. Invisible birds chirp and beep, soft and all around, constant as the moon herself. A slow breeze, cool but not cold, floats itself gently through every window. Uncountable insects dive and swirl, just silver specks now in the low light. From this window now, the tallest tower is seen, prematurely lit by some timer set in winter. Bathed in yellow. A plane so swiftly, silently, disappears behind it, kisses its neck and moves on. Nonchalant. A moped breaks the relative silence, a reminder that this is Europe, and you have to leave it soon. Marcus rounds the corner, sounding his familiar wail, "eeuuw-eu!" like some excited bird. But he is the common or garden Irishman, a hit with his Italian girl, friend. His lightly burned skin matching the horizon a few moments ago. The breeze turns cold, the birds get loud, and Marcus and the insects disappear. Traffic roars and the moon bosses the now deep blue sky. Peace ends until tomorrow night.