Who are we when we turn off the lights? Tell me, child, what shape will your words take? Maybe you will find some part of yourself, dulled and forgotten, and cradle it again to let its colours flow freely.

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Photo transcript:

This is my favourite part of the day. When the world goes silent, thick with slumber, there is much room to think and breathe. The veil of night, ephemeral as it may be, casts neither judgement nor warmth, providing always its assured return.

Run, child. Free your thoughts to pen and paper. Leave no word unwritten, no tragedy unlamented, no idea unblossomed.

Run, child. Free your imagination to the faceless void. Admire its darkness or despise its stars. The world is yours as you see it to be; there are faces in the flowers and realms above our own. Magics and mayhem and mirrors made of nothing more than the tendrils of your mind adorning the dull rock of reality. But you dream it all in rusting reds and plightful purples and burning, boisterous blues. So the world shall be that melody of hues. Do not ever lose sight of the ever dimming light that fades as we age. 

Rage, rage, do not give in docilely to become another one of the dejected, lost souls spinning endlessly in the machine, merely a cog. You can be more. You can be an artist. Tell me where your heart is.