Dusk, or ruminations on transition states.

There is something about dusk. The world slipping into darkness. My senses seem heightened. Perhaps it's a remnant of an instinct. 'Pay attention self, the night, and the dangers associated with it, is rapidly approaching.' Shadows are deeper than they will be even in the dead of night. Everything seems quieter. Sounds come in singularities. The trees tremble, and when they've said their piece the leaves will rustle. In fact I've noticed that there are less people out at dusk. Something disconcerting about the time I guess.

But perhaps it isn't instinct. Perhaps it's a fascination with transitory states. The 'in between'. The process rather than the result for the artist. The race rather than the finish. Young adulthood. The reporting. The climb. And, according to Stephen King, the story. Between the definites. Beyond the understood. In a word, Dusk.