X tells me he’s always been afraid of dusk. Summer or winter, it doesn’t matter, he says. Some sort of gloom fear or boredom always descends on him with the murk, he says, that’s when he’s confronted by whatever it is that keeps trying to peel him apart and smother him. That’s why he makes sure to be sloshed by dusk, he tells me, to push it away, to make a buffer zone.
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