It is 5 pm in Green Park. But of course there is nothing green about it. For a few hours between 7 am and 2 pm there may have been something of a faint autumnal brown to it, but now it is just black. The sun has long gone; trees stand like mute sentinels along the edges of what just a few short months ago was a verdant lawn. To walk through Green Park at this time of day is not unlike drifting through outer space; an endless black nothingness save for the glow of a distant, soon-to-be-dead, star. The streetlights emit something but it would be a stretch to call it light, it appears to emanate from an indeterminate source in a neighbouring solar system. In fact, in the time it takes for the light to travel through the mist and fog and reach Green Park, the streetlight itself has probably disappeared; such is the mind-bending reality in which he finds himself. 

It is also cold. It is the sort of cold that seems to seep in through the pores of your skin and take up permanent residence in your bones. The ground beneath his feet, once a firm path occasionally strewn with poetic, wind-swept leaves, is now implacably treacherous; when the light does occasionally hit it, it is revealed to be not dissimilar to satellite images of the Sea of Tranquillity, but without the tranquillity because each step makes a loud squelch; an almost celebratory coming together of wet mud, leaves and traces of dog shit. To travel fast is to risk potentially fatal injury and embarrassment, to tread slowly is to allow ice particles to form in your eye lashes and deep-freeze a femur in mid-stride. It is, obviously, not much of a choice. 

It seemed to happen - somewhat ironically, given the darkness - in a flash. One moment he was marching very confidently towards his destination, the next moment he was lying very meekly on his face. Up close, the smell of freshly-squelched mulch is overpowering. He tries for a few seconds to isolate the smells of mud, leaves and shit, but he gives up and holds his breath. His heart beats in sync with the sound of passing feet. The numbness in his limbs has not protected him from the pain of impact; it has merely postponed it to a later time. Tomorrow, perhaps, when he awakes in instalments, he will relive this moment in his mind. For now, there in the still air of the mid-winter evening, he turns his head towards the stars, and longs for home.