Each eventide gargoyle shadows warp past a metre long, then twist-erase themselves into nothingness. For it is nightfall’s noble habitude, it’s purview and duty to discharge, to clear the canvas of all that’s been in readiness for dawn’s empyreal mirth. So rest easy while they stretch. Fear not the pavement cracks. Ere long each vanishes as certainly as the clocks turn. Time marches and, to its beat, they have but a scant and withering retort, cloaked as it is in lies.
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