Irking a wall of black treacle and a dozen freckles of marigold, a slip of crimson drifted into yet another nighttime canvas.
Unreachable corners of woodland were still dressed by the dark. Cats eyes remained unseen. Bin liners remained complete. Empty wine bottles looked like they needed sleep.
Railway fuzz poked its head from behind a forest. It was the only scrap of pulse on offer. Roads looked closed, trees were well behaved and buildings looked divorced.
Such was the level of stillness; even the waft of a day-time whisper was considered unwelcome at these times of the night. Dangerously silent to the uninitiated, but even the wind sleeps here. An owl keeps watch. And then, uh oh. Trouble ahead. Daytime is en route.
Photographic evidence of my Amsterdam half-marathon training.