Late evening, and the sun begs my understanding, as he must be on his way. There's no point in protesting, but I remind him that he never looks better than he does in his last light, and that it just makes our parting that much more heart - wrenching. He promises his return, and off he goes. Sometimes it seems as though I've been fitted with special glasses that see beyond the mist of complacency to where splendor lay. I didn't mean to love this life in the way I do - it just happened. Didn't mean to cling to every moment, didn't mean to notice profound beauty everywhere I looked, didn't mean to imprison myself to a love of something that could never return the feeling. There are no promises made by life that it can be held to - it can be as fickle as it desires to be. The sun, on the other hand, promises me a golden tomorrow and I take him at his word, though I always cross my fingers for luck.