A Diary of the End of the Day

Trees look so stately, silhouetted against the silvery blue sky, waifish clouds laying themselves down on the horizon - not entirely without purpose, but mostly restful. Thin golden sabres penetrate through the empty spaces of the skyline and lunge into my eyes, reflected dimly in the window pane. That face looks so much more rugged there - bathed in vague shadows - complimentary flourishes of light - vaseline on the lens. I am stately, and sexual. The Hitler hairdo and untamed beard could stop Cleopatra in her tracks. I'd fuck me. Oh yes - that man in that window - he is a real person.

The light feels precarious, as if it could shatter at the slightest touch. A broom extended from the window might knock the sheet off the curtain rail, and bring down the set, and reveal the perpetual ever glowing dark behind it - deep and rich, full of blues. A sky of deepest blue Indian ink, pricked with gorgeous bright stars, pounding softly on the trees and making them glow dark against the lovingly painted backdrop. The city below breathes softly and hums, exhilarating breaths, long sighs and quiet people all lying and walking and suffering below the massive sky above, pressing down with such momentous quiet, full of planes, blinking softly into the distance.

The light is fading now, faster and deeper, leaving only traces of itself bouncing around the glass, dancing on the fences, resting in the ponds. It is so beautifully dying, caressing the air as it eases the suffering. Endless houses, with their bright yellow eyes, and bright yellow mouths, watch in astonishment, only awake when the day is falling into unconsciousness. All is full of birds, slumbering gently, awaiting the dawn. I see stars, the scouts of Nyx, and that winged goddess herself, in her chariot, grasping the corner of that sky and pulling it slowly down as she flies across the heavens, and the day falls effortlessly under her arms.

That cool orange is so subtle at my back, and sparsely pricking my eyes from out there - earthly, and manly, and ethereal. All history is united under that same sky. The whole of human experience has seen the same skies - just think - you have woken to the same skies as Alexander, you have sat in awe of the same sunrises as Hammurabi - beautiful and delicate, and immortal, unchanging. It is deep on that horizon that we all exist - alone in the solar system, and the audience to a most spectacular exhibition.