Bad Writing: An Ode to Twilight

So my roommate here in Germany is reading "Twilight."  We've immediately discovered that the writing style basically sucks.  Granted, my writing isn't great, but I'm not looking for any sort of publication.  Thank you, "Twilight" for your cheap adjectives and your unnecessary descriptions. Given a topic, the challenge was set forth: Write something seemingly descriptive and epic with a completely mundane topic.  DONE.  Here is what I give you:

"Mail: An Ode to Twilight"

It was cold out.  Not so cold as to make one wear a jacket or even a coat, but enough of a chill that when I stepped outside in my flip flops it took me a moment to adjust to the cold.  It was that strange sort of cold that I wasn’t really sure what to think of.  Winter?  No.  Fall?  No.  But almost.  Yes, it was almost fall.  The summer was ending and I wasn’t exactly sure why the chill had come as quickly as it did.  Granted it had been a mild summer but the warm was barely evident.

It was then I realized that I was standing in the shade.  I took a few more steps forward to bask in the sun.  Ah, warmth.  It was warm.  Apparently the darkness, that strange darkness of the shadows covered me in its cool embrace, shielding me from the once familiar sunny rays.  Sunglasses.  Next time I would bring them.  I didn’t want to burn my retinas.

I walked down the rocky pavement, my driveway.  Its gray color bland and yet it was the perfect gray.  As if it were a hue mixed with the perfect shades of black and white.  That gray.

The cars zoomed by down the road.  And yet with some sort of hesitation, I paused, hesitated, as one would as if lost in thought…and I was.  The cars slowed before speeding by again.  Could it be?  What force benevolent or malignant could beckon these cars to act in such a way.  It could only be one thing.  That white truck with the driver’s steering wheel placed on the opposite side of any other normal car.  The eagle, bold and all knowing stretched across the letters USPS…Ah, yes, the United States Postal Service.

I lagged behind for a few moments, waiting for the truck to pass my driveway, turning my head to feign distraction, as if I had not seen the truck or the man driving it…or woman.  I waited a little longer before I finally approached the mailbox, beaten, aged from last winter’s snow plows, rain, and age.  I reached inside.  I hardly knew what to expect.  There it was in my hands now.  Tuesday’s mail.