Through the daytime light it seems tiny and full - the night turns its diminutiveness into a mysterious space - dark yet dimly lit, it resembles the chorus on the backstage - the important but modestly shaded component of the performance.
The cosines of the streets acquires a special color - the color of night, mixed with the yellowish shop-windows, greenish pubs and different shades of the brown-gray. It has nothing of the brightness the big cities sparkle with: advertisement sheets, illuminations - simplicity of noble lanterns makes a touching composition with the full moon, or, more often, its complete absence.
No cars - almost. A few bikers. Quietness intermingles with the sounds, echoing from pubs and night cafes, very few and usually packed.
Heart beating becomes an inseparable sound of the nightlife - one does hear it. The pulse on the arm - in tact with the town pulse: no hurry at all, time is at your disposal. You need not squeeze it, you can strain it endlessly, and still find some remains.
Forget-me-not, says the flower. I won’t ever, murmurs a passer-by, a casual pedestrian, an unknown guest of the night on a small spot of the earth. Forget-me-not.