I

These nights are like all nights. They only feel different as each night feels different. The smell of it is often something varied and specific. The taste of it can be wet or dry. It could be be cold or it could be hot.

You'd only know through cutouts and disguises and falsehoods. The truest pictures of the night are those ones with the camera panned well up above the thronging colourmasses and up to the tops of the decaying buildings. Take a photo of a summer night, take a photo of a winter night. It all looks the same.

Spring nights are different.

II

They were contemplating a depraved flaneurism from on top of the roof as they tried to look at the truest view of the city without a camera. They weren't sure if they should break their aesthetic loyalties and look down at the people and regard them coolly and from a (literally) elevated position.

They weren't sure what that sort of urban metaphor would mean if they were rapidly losing elevation as they were doing it. They were fairly certain of a lot of things.

Only, they didn't know if it was warmth first crunch later or if it was the other way around.

III

The moon hangs above as all, a petulant orb pregnant with all the meanings important people have attached to it. It is woman, demure and the counterpoint to the sun. It is madness. It is coldness. It is alien strangeness. It is the false god of the night.

Perhaps the moon isn't any of these things. Perhaps the moon is angry and sad. Perhaps the moon feels this way because someone's writing another poem about it and making it to be something it is not.

Perhaps the moon demands intellectual property legislation. Maybe something simpler. Maybe pre-art consent.

IV

Some part of the rationale behind their actions might very well be because of the spring. Perhaps in their desire to turn their living, breathingness into art, their individuality into a product for the collective, they found the spring night to be a counterpoint to the sculpture they were beginning to mold.

Spring is the season of life.

They prepare to fashion death.

V

Art is difference. If you find a world that's one homogeneous block, one thing or perhaps a thing close to that, ask them if they know what a painting is or why it's necessary and they won't. Art is difference.

But is the difference in the universe before you came to make your mark on it enough for you to deem it art or is it merely randomness. All art is difference but all difference is not art, yes?

Spring is the season of life or death. Pan your camera up above them in their disguises and lies and you shall then see the city and the night in all its veracity.