Dusk fell down around me in a vast billowing curtain. When I was little I thought that dusk was when the sun sets and the truth is that even as I wrote it there I still imagined a golden tunnel in the sky, run through with pink clouds that looked so much like candyfloss it was as though someone had unstuck them from a children’s book and plastered them about the landscape. Dusk is not sunset. If anything it’s the opposite, it’s the absolute absence of a sun. The dusk that filled up the front window of the Civic was constantly shifting but made everything around shuffle like static. It was as though the atmosphere were a giant blue eel and everything around me, each car or lamppost or torn billboard, was being churned up in it’s stomach until all that remained was a shadowy mass still half throbbing with life. I shifted with the shapes. One moment I was a grown man wearing a hospital lanyard over a tie, hands pressed to the wheel of his car and searching through his head for answers to the most serious news of his life like pulling files from an endless cabinet and the next I became a boy waiting in the car for his family to come out of a friend’s house in a neighbourhood far away from where his home was. The tie I wore became a school one-a tie for elementary students- I was just tall enough to see out of the window and I didn’t like what I saw. What time was dusk usually? I wondered; the hospital clock had said ten thirty five but the hours had slipped away from my grip like a wet sardine and all I could think about was how the cars that passed went only to the left of me and never to the right and how nearly all of them went in the other direction. My confusion stretched the length of the night and as the dusk began to melt into viscous rays of sunlight I awoke to find that the car had never been moving, I had only thought that it was…