light left on the sky ...

Barbed wire against a faded wall.

He hated dusk, and the faint light left on the sky then. He hated it, for it was the only window that split the day, the unreal day that was the mirage of being, like being submersed in water with an air supply tube in your mouth, and the night, the unreal night that was the mirage of getting lost, like floating weightless in an air-tight dark chamber. But the dusk, the twilight was horrifyingly real whichever way he tried to look at it, and he hated it for being so real.