I am so bone tired. There is nothing but a restless wonder, buzzing though my head. We could say that I’m in a desert, and maybe you’re here too. I can’t tell. I’m tired. You could be a shadow, or a well formed dune for all I care.
There is an old wooden sign, and at first I think it’s drawing closer to us, until I remember that we’re walking. That we’ve always been walking. The sand below is blue, and dark. It reminds me of shaved crayons, in the bottom of a crayola box.
You ask if it’s nighttime here, or if we’re maybe dreaming.
“No” I tell you. “This is dusk.”
We keep walking. The sign draws closer. Something’s written on it, but it’s hard to look at. It looks magical, and I could never read this sort of thing. You tell me that it’s beautiful, but I look away. This is followed by a great deal of remorse, as if I’m missing out on something and I don’t have a choice.
We walk past the sign. Strange shadows swoop and twirl along the landscape, as if great winged creatures are dancing above us.
“What are those?” I ask, glancing up at the sky.
“I don’t really know,” you reply without looking. “…It’s the last day of November.”
“Oh.” I say. And it’s around this time I notice the bones, sticking up out of the blue sand. Maybe this is the end of the desert, I wonder.
“Where are we?” I hear you ask from behind me.
“Dusk,” I reply. “We should keep walking.”