It is in that fate

It is in that fate to, for a moment, shudder in an all-dark void. The streetscape renounces its caresses of the sun. The sun has sunk completely now. In an asynchronous dappling across the high plains, the street lamps rise out of the dim slowly towards the east end of the avenue. There is no light on the streets now. The sun has night. The night enfolded the buildings in a process by which the grey bloomed with dark dapples. I ride further forward. The walls are increasingly black. The pock-marked sealse of death. In this space between the sun and the streetlamp the buildings can sleep, even cognizant of the errors giving onto this respite. It is as the night has plaited its voiding capes across my surfaces that it feels a certain humility and self-conciousness. For as it now stands, almost fully erased from the continuity of the city, it comes forth with even more presence. The lawn has retained its silvery cloak, the sky swells with a livid orange haze, and the lawn draws accents of purple into its texture, and sweeping past, in the center, a pure black void shaped like on of those other buildings I passed. It displays its wasted gift of erasure with an iconic pronounciation that would seem proud if it, as an object, existed. Yet, in its impoverished unbeing, it has been erased into existence.