This time of day.
The time of day when the stars shine brightest, trying to illuminate a world that doesn’t really need its presence, a world capable of lighting itself up.
The time of day when the roads are free as air, with an occasional vehicle racing across the coal tar, its occupant too drunk to have a care in the world.
It’s this time of day.
The time of day when the die-hard workers still walk the streets, their bountiful wares jiggling carelessly in their short dresses, their lips too tired to remain pouted, hustling for that last buck.