A certain dampness
over the weekend - not rain, not snow. Mist, fog, a cloud come down to earth. The streets are wet. There is still a dampness in the air, a kind of greyness that spares us sorrow yet leaves us somewhat glum anyway, the way a boy finds only disappointment in his Christmas stocking.
Fog fills everything. The surface of the pond is rippled by wind. Moisture is beaded on the car. Everything drab and serious. The mood, yes, glum.
The temperature is in the mid-30s. A lazy wind from west to east. North of Fairwater visibility is a quarter mile, perhaps a bit farther.
Real life will get inside us if we let it. Too often we hide some place else - in something on television, a soft drift of book. We have to embrace the horror if we are to embrace the world; we don't have to love it, yet too often - turning away - we turn from everything.
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