Leach and I left the gallery

Leach and I left the gallery behind and it was still dusk. Spring dusks are Arctic. Instead of the sun racing (visually) as it gets closer and closer to the horizon, like it does over the ocean or the desert, it seems to slow asymptotically and sometimes almost move backwards. It felt brighter now than when I had first come into the CoA. It was a brightness that filled the air like a mold seeking the detail and texture of the scabby crust of the world about us. Leach and I moved through it. It was the kind of inescapable light captured beneath a rainless thunderstorm with the omnipresence of effect that throbs in a room lit with incandescent lights after just leaving a room solely lit by fluorescents. But the sky was cloudless, endless, and blue even seen out of the viscous, icteric streetscape. With the city in shade but brilliant, the ascian (to misuse an adjective describing the shadowlessness of equatorial noon) clarity made immediate all of our surroundings.