Blue and pink and red, the horizon stretches far into the distance. Brighter in the west, it fades to the east and dwindles eventually to nothingness. Behind, back in the direction from which he came, there is light. But it too is dying.
The pinks and reds have already been replaced by an appealing orange and silhouettes of trees and houses can be seen positioned up on the hills. An expanding band of yellow seems to be moving far too fast for its own good. Soon it too will be gone.
To the east lies nothing but darkness and its spread, left to right, is easily detectable with the naked eye. It’s hard to know whether the dying light holds a metaphor, whether it should be celebrated, or whether human perception is simply assigning spiritual significances to the gravity’s glorious accident.
Whatever, it goes on regardless. And as he watches the final traces of yellow fading dusky blue, a shrill voice emerges over the speaker system informing the passengers that they are approaching the station and that they shouldn’t leave the train without their possessions.
Soon he will be deep underground, where the lights are constant and oranges and yellows have no place. And he will forget the subtleties observed, as his world turns grey once more.