Terrible things may happen after the sun goes down, but most terrible things don’t care what state the sun is in. Most terrible things aren’t much affected by the amount of light witnessing them.
Think about the way looking at a candle in a dark room allows you to see you the fine drizzle of gold around the flame. This is how you make me feel.
The only time I want to see things happen more slowly is when your face produces words that matter to me. I want to draw you out, prolong you, see your muscles move more heavily so I can devour each moment of their journey. I want the words you say to crawl under my skin and press down on each nerve ending, I want them to bore into my muscle memory, the only true kind of memory.
The only way to make words stay inside you is to roll their flat paper bodies into tubes and stick them into the muscle slots. Each muscle is perforated by a thousand holes to allow your words to settle there. These slots are accessed via every pore of the skin.
It doesn’t matter if this makes sense: what matters is that I’m trying to describe what you make me feel, and the bad job I’m doing should prove my point that words are useless at making the most of what little time there is.