And now, the storm comes.

Instead of a haze, there are thunderclouds miles high, dark and forbidding. The sun is gone, or nearly so. When you see it is a dull disc that you look on with resentment.

Who are you but a faded Apollo? You’re not much more than a smear on the sky. A slightly lighter spot in a dark firmament. You don’t rise, and you don’t set. You serve no purpose anymore, you’re not even warm.

But you remember the sun, and you forgive it while you resent it because for so long it warmed your and cheered you and even though it has faded to — ironically — a memory, you still look at it and remember what it once was.

Ah, you were wrong, the sun is setting, slowly, So slowly.