I was going to say, except for the people who work there, but perhaps not, given their transitory nature--moving from place to place, expanding and collapsing like a night-blooming flower.
And nights are the best time for them, oh yes, when all the lights are lit and moving. They’re larger, then, the boundaries are harder to find in the shadows behind the colors.
There’s a carnival across the street right now. I can’t look at it and not feel the resonance of a thousand stories, the weight of nostalgia and breath of magic that haunts them even when they are utterly prosaic.
I’m not going to visit it. I’m the sort where the mystery is better if I just watch from a distance. And besides, it’s loud.
But I can look out my window at midnight, and see the colors wheeling against the sky, vivid and bold and beckoning and strange, and for just a little while there’s an extra fold in existence.