Who is the sun? Apollo Vindonnus? Ha! As if.

That morning sun, maybe it was a clear light, but this faded smear of white—not even white, a faded desultory conversation which provides no light to anyone.

So you’re torn by the memory of what was, the knowledge that it is gone, and the cruel knife-twist that lets you see sometimes that in there, behind the haze, the memory of the sun is still there, somewhere.

And eventually the sun, as all suns must, fades and set and the sky is dark and the grief you feel is less because you said goodbye to that sun years ago. But the guilt you feel is compounded by the lessened grief. “What sort of monster am I to feel relief at the setting of the sun? How much of a bastard must I be?”

But you cannot manufacturer grief. Neither can you assuage guilt. So you sit in your front row to watch and bear witness to the final commemoration of that sun’s journey and you try to remember the time before the haze, or at least before the storm.

And you do.

And you don’t.

And you curse the storm because it’s tainted you. You carry its burden like a mark on your forehead that you assume everyone must see.

And you realize that the storm will come again, and again you will not notice its presages.