You resolve lethargically in a deep-set, off-white couch in a deep-set, off-white room. The hasty golden hour casts itself down with unpromising itineracy, redecorates the walls, exposing a vacant , vulnerable canvas to whichever pigment was to to make its way there. And the walls would drown in the added dimension that the light forced upon them, leaving them to wallow in a deeply euphoric beauty and calm that only fleeting nostalgia could bring.
And only when the evening's colours are completely woven in to the atmosphere, the insidious entwinement that sunlight always silences by a façade of beauty, do you take notice to the direction from which the wall's new tint originates.
The clouds are hazy with an anomalous tropical drought, creating a thin mask of misprision that makes the origin of this incandescence indistinguishable. Burning are the dying flames of a celestial fire as time wears on in its fickle pace. Through bands of orange and embers of rose is a flowering bud of fire, that lends itself to the combustion of an evening thick with nebulous tension; igniting the heavens in one last blaze that is near-becoming a vista of evanescence.
