Dusk

I saw the color you love as the sun disappeared behind clouds. It was thick yolk slipping through syrup on my California approach, a sinkhole tugging great flat horizons of colors I've never been able to empathize with. Comprehending a thousand miles is violent and stunning and sits caged behind two thin layers of window suspended in the nowhere desolation as land slides sluggishly past my dark endless reference frame. The sunset was a framed picture spun at rapid speed and set into false motion, the illusion of escape before I let my mind wander to those minute connections that build into bullshit interpretations of fate and significance. Pockmarks of city grids flash into existence to spite this funeral for a sun and I can almost smell the city lighting its cigarette under a streetlight struggling for life. Dusk is a line in the desert for the boiling tar to relax with a shot of jet fuel and crossed fingers.