‘The sun is dying,’ I said, looking up.
The sun really looked like it was dying, shot by the force of the Earth’s rotation and the inevitable pull of time. The sky was a hue of rosy pink, catching the last brilliant lights left scattered across the horizon.
‘If it’s dying, why does it have to be so magnificent?’ he asked.
'I guess the sun likes being grand.’
He took my hand and warmed it in his without saying a word. Everything around us turned quiet - the humming traffic, the whispering passer-bys, the occasional rustle of autumn leaves. We were walking along Central. The giant clock at Federation square showed 5:40pm. Our movements were slow, sedated - anything but hurried. If the sun really was dying, we were very much alive.