The other night, I was driving home down Cowley Road, which pretty much runs due east out of the city. I was coming from the ring road end, in proper Radiohead style, and therefore heading due west. It was just after 9, and Nick Drake's Pink Moon was on the stereo. I am not overstating myself too much when I say that it fitted my mood perfectly.
But then I rounded a slight bend just after the Q8 garage, and I saw the sun setting. If the sun is normally the size of a £2 coin (v similar in diameter to the 2 euro coin, eurozone fact fans), this sun was the size of a dinner plate. It demanded your attention, and (shortly afterwards) your helpless wail of appreciation.
This sun was also perfecty, impossibly pink, and it was sliding down the sky in a way that managed to be simultaneously inevitable and imperceptible. The sun will die! But slowly, so we can watch. It will go down in its own flames, and we will have plenty of time to realise that we are nothing without it.
Like a good Doctor Who episode, this train of thought will be continued.
joella
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