The most beautiful light in the world. Around five, it starts. It comes from everywhere and nowhere. It permeates the world. This is what reality looks like. This is how it really is. Not the harsh light of day. Not the tint of rose-coloured glass.

It begins pure and clear. It becomes golden. It bathes the world, worships it, lavish and decandent. The clouds are stained pink, my walls a burnt umber. The colour deepens, bruises, through gold to orange to blue and then the world is laced with dream-light. Anything is possible in the dusk, when life continues as normal but is so emphatically different.

It's evenings like this that I feel like an impressionist, armed with my mind rather than an easel, trying to capture the impossibility of light.