When I sit in the library

I know it's dark outside because half of what I see is tables and chairs and florescent lights and cold drafts outside the window. I glanced down, and in those ten seconds the street lights clicked on.

Evening is a fading.  Is there a moment when it's afternoon and the next is evening?  When does evening turn to night?

If I have learned one thing this quarter, it's that definite answers are dangerous. Straight lines are rare. We're all a little blurred.

Five minutes ago, I would have walked home through the alley without a second thought. Now, though, I'll take the long way home, after three hours of stolen sight tick past.