Sunset

A certain quality of light exists, a scarlet sky near sunset, where everything lay in a limbo between light and twilight. Even within the confines of these walls, the lamp does little in illuminating the room. Outside, the red pierces these windows and nullifies this dull yellow into naught. The day dies in an asphyxiation of light: white, red, black. I cannot read, I cannot write, I cannot but be mesmerized, entranced by such a firework display.