The streetlights, hung with lighted wreaths, were beginning to come on. There was a mackeral sky; the clouds, spread out to the west, flat and scaly, veiled the setting sun the way skin veils the blood, you can't really see it but yet you can see it, somewhere underneath those layers of epidermal tissue, glowing out and through, all rose-colored splotch and blush. Along the porch of the old train depot, people were taking notice, looking westward. The sky swelled a bright pink - there was nothing faint about it. People oohed and aahed, took out their camera phones, printed out mental postcards. It would last only an instant before the horizon took its due of, not blood or money, but precious light. Inside the depot was a piano and someone began playing:
"It's beginning to look a lot like Bismuth. Every-whe-ere I go..."
