Night comes to Pittsburgh, Venice, and New Orleans, equally, in her own time.

She cannot be rushed.

Like a grand dame, she waits calmly and patiently, for her turn to speak without words.

And then, on some nights, she is a flutter of anticipation. A beautiful actress, sitting in her dressing room, waiting for the show to start.

She regally adorns herself with stars and, on some nights, wears the moon on her collarbone, like an incandescent pearl glowing through the black void of her skin and hair.

She slowly brushes her raven locks, gazing admiringly at her reflection in the mirror. Most nights, she is pleased with what she sees.

Her dark beauty is unparalleled. The moon and sun both adore her, without questioning her motives.

Her voice wavers momentarily and coats the evening sky like liquid silk. Her melodic chime cancels out any doubt of her raison d’être.

She is there to give and to take away, to sooth, to ignite, to cleanse, to make amends.

To each she brings something different. No one knows what she holds until

she opens up her hands and reveals what’s enfolded there.

A gift? A curse? Forms moving in the darkness take many forms. The mind creates matter & explanation where there once was no one and nothing.

For some she leaves elixirs, for others warnings.

Every shade of surprise, or perhaps dull repetitions.

Expectations, desires, dreams, wishes, even fears & nightmares — will they be met or unfulfilled?

In some places, her reception is grand, and in others, quiet and imperceptible, a jaguar slinking past their defenses, into the blinding blackness.

The wise do not grasp for her, for they know she can never be caught, never possessed, not fully. Her fingers paint the sky and the earth many different colors, and if you stand very still, you might just appear on her canvas, too, if only for a few moments.

The lovers of the night open the very deepest recesses of themselves to her — without fear, without reserve, without reproach. They face her, all defenses down, willingly waiting for her to possess them. They know she will take them if she desires it.

Vile, would-be defilers, she will come for you too, foiling your greedy grasping fingers, slipping through your phantom grasps with grace and charm. You cannot probe her. She will not allow it.

You will never be satisfied.

Pacing, prowling, pouncing upon the trail she leaves behind. It is just an imperceptible, trailing shadow of black on black that you will never catch.

And you, the Explorers, treading through the thickets of the Unknown, will you find her hidden treasures? Do you plan to plunder her for your own spoils of war? Her locked chests are not for the taking.

And if she decides to grace you with her presence, she will touch you like none other.