Dusk

Pink tendrils of silky color seeped into the sky at dusk, silently spreading and altering the gentle hues of pastel blue, almost touching the tips of the soft clouds sifting by. The setting of dusk is in perfect harmony with the rhythm of time, a flawless transition in temperament, a measured sounding of honey-warm chords played on harps. It is in such moments of sublime configuration –– no rough edges that needs to be rounded out, no dissymmetry that needs to be justified –– that the ultimate presence of continuity reigns. Not a mechanical progression in the stages of daily existence, but a natural lengthening of pages in an incomplete story, an unfinished musical phrase. Time is distorted in the larger schemes of things, so greatly spread that the most imperceptible milliseconds of events are just as substantial as leaps in centuries. It then becomes two simultaneously existing lines of possibility and reality. One is the other, and the other is one.