As dusk announces its arrival, snaking around trees and spilling across landscapes, I can begin to wash away the paint; the socially accepted pallet envelops my every pore. I watch for the exposing sun to bid goodbye beyond the horizon, so I can be protected by the darkness. It is then when my unfiltered thoughts begin to eagerly leak. I dare not think of a vulnerable statement escaping my lips without the cover of night; leaving me defenseless to the callousness of my surroundings. As the setting sun casts harsh shadows across my hidden face, I feel the the confidence conjuring. The shadows creep along the walls and serve as my comforting veil - behind which I can sigh, and settle amongst the thoughts that are my own. It’s weary to wait for the navy cloak, though I continually succeed in doing so. 
Soon enough, though, the night will not come; perhaps the sun will not set. 
And what, then, will serve as my blanket of tranquility?
Ah, the soft veil of death.