It is night. It is always night.

The days grow longer as the sun skips across the Earth's extremes on her axis, sheathing towns like Tacoma in an ephemeral umbra. That is, in a physical sense.

In the town, the people drive either like maniacs or geriatrics, ever imbalanced, and regardless of the situation they are quick to anger. Self-righteous and mad on deadly booze that only spares them since they've been drinking since in the womb, they careen about, hoping to strike a thing of importance and make it normal for them. Like a ruinous immune system with cancerous white blood cells, the evil spreads and becomes total.