halfway time

It's that nice time now. It is nice. Just a little time before darkness falls completely and suddenly like a sheet, covering everything, blocking it all out. But now, it is cool and quiet, and everything in the world is giving the sun its One Minute's Silence. And everything is still at the end of day. Even here, in the city, everything is still.
I suppose you might call it twilight. I don't think that fits, though. It's more dusk-ish. Comfortable, a little blank, and that's not demanding, just beautiful. And everything has a resigned, gloomy air, utterly disapproving, as though, in it's opinion, the sun has no business shirking its duties to go off in a westerly way wherever it pleases. That's not the nature-ish thing to do at all. Stand and fight, gentlemen, stand and fight.
It's deepening now, and the shadows are gone, for everything is shadow, though you can see, so it must be light. nothing is strong enough to cast a shadow, everything is just blurry and very unreal, like this world, this Earth-place, was changing its forming, becoming something else for a night out amongst the stars... who wouldn't be willing to change for that ? Bats let loose, they joyfully fly, the Night, that saucy seductress, whispers words of horrible comfort from the shade of trees and comes slowly, shyly, like any seductress worth her salt, out to unfurl her cloak of darkness which the city so blatantly defies- neon lights here and tubelights there- and bilboards all in a row.
My little bulb holds out valiantly, as she swings on the wire as so many of her interrogation-room predecessors have done in movies of times long gone, and her light battles the silent darkness at the corners of the glow. And suddenly, it seems as though there are a million swords emanating from her in every direction, each a millisecond in light, fighting off the darkness in every direction that threatens to engulf her and put out her light. Permanently.
The time is almost past, it is almost dark now, and princesses who wished to leave their towers in this magical hour when it is bright enough to see and dark enough not to be caught and have not done so, have lost their chance. Leaping out of their highly romanticized single-windowed towers now would result in a number of slender and pale, but broken, necks, I'm afraid. The darkness has come, my bulb fights on, and time has passed the hedge at the end of the garden and moved on.