Fugue in Uncommon Time

Theodore was not at all sure where the day had gone. Nevertheless, his shadow was growing long in the twilight as he made his way home from the park he often visited after school. The first few weeks of the fourth grade had not been kind to him, and he was on average not very happy.
Why he was unpopular was not obvious to Theodore. He'd received the usual encouragement from caring adults (that is, not his parents), telling him that he'd grow up to be just what everyone wanted: a dashing, talented, socially facile, and totally well rounded individual.
But this didn't do him much good in the present. The contrast was more than noticeable: large, round, thick lenses on his eyes; exceptionally large - almost floppy- ears; and the stature of your average six year old. He found himself to be the opposite of their helpful imaginings, and the opinions of the other children confirmed it: he was alternately called "funny-looking," "stupid," and "weird." An outsider had little alternative but keep to himself and fervently hope that the adults told him the truth, depite the seeming lack of correlation with reality.
Still, he kept to himself and so had one great advantage: no matter how much the other children might taunt him, no matter if they hated "new kids" or how vicious their puerile jabs might seem, Theodore had his mind, and the things he contemplated made the days, if not short and easy, certainly satisfactory on a deep level that he couldn't hope to share with anyone else.
At dusk, the play of the sun's colors off the cobblestone road, their purple-orange effusion off the myriad textures of the tight urban scape, and their hesitation to commit to forming sharp shadows as they oozed around stark corners made the sunset seem like a painting reconfiguring itself a thousand times per second, and seemed altogether precious to Theodore. He saw in shadows the conflict of warriors, the rise and fall of kings and their kingdoms. He saw mystical creatures take form - here a unicorn with a fiery mane - and morph with surprising ease - now a simpering hyena - into things yet more fantastical and of radically different dimensions.
As he turned into the back alley onto which his family's tenement opened, the radiance of twilight seemed somewhat warmer, more enveloping, than usual. Theodore felt a bead of sweat forming on his brow, felt...rather ill all at once. The orange light was more a part of his blurring vision than the character of the dwindling sunlight, the purple now swirling in his periphery like so much phantasmagoria...
But he was home presently, was he not? This was his door, or was this his door? He knew only that the numbers on the lintel were his, though they had aged from a shiny copper to the mossy green of a patina. This was home, but it was altogether different. He reached for the loose glass doorknob, and the world turned awry...