Darker now earlier in the day, productivity lags and crime rates soar. Melancholy has the consistency of dusk, and when I imagine freedom it is dusk there too. As I write this, night has burned it out—my lamps are turned up.
Came home at 3 a.m., walking down the hill, hearing my own breath rattle with each step. The street was covered in crisp leaves, the bases of some trees scratched up by the neighborhood cats. Staring down the road, into the tunnel of sycamores, I swore that the night was making my childhood home into a mirage.
Words by Michael Juliani
Photos by Hank Cherry
