Dusk, I tell X, there’s something we can agree on at least. How do people get through it? Dusk reminds me of Denmark, do you remember Denmark? He doesn’t answer. A wet black path through a darkening grove that seems to take forever to walk through, I say. Cold air. Nothing stirs. A standardised suburb in the middle of nowhere. The very air seems standardised, resisting emotions. Words mean nothing in a place like that, it’s imposible to explain, isn’t it? I ask him. He doesn’t answer. Home along a clean empty lane. In the gloaming. Too nice a phrase, the Danes don’t go in for nice phrases. Nothing, says the dusk every evening without saying it, it’s understood. We’ve never talked about it before, I tell X. It’s hard to talk about such misery. Why won’t you talk about it? He doesn’t answer.


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