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We say that it falls, (as sifts its warm, muted cousin, the dusk, into copses and corners), and often it does in a breath descend to a conflux of faces anticipating each some tensile and spotlit suspense, but every once in a cool, cerulean moon its dumbness will switch from downward to lift, as when after the end of a parched, simple crying, a hush then rises and rises and rises.