There was something about how the gray this afternoon tried to drag me into nostalgia but failed because I just didn't have the time. I wanted it not to fail. Time-deprived or not, I always consider nostalgia a prerogative when November comes around. Some indulgence in melancholy memory is necessary this time of year or one misses the whole seasonal atmosphere, and then it might as well be some other time I won't say spring.
Not a star visible tonight, the rumpled dimness is there again, slow clouds turning back a bit of the town's escaped light, and muffling the surprisingly soft air. The pavement now wears a scattering of pine needles which tend to slip slightly underfoot. I like to imagine sliding on them, speeding down the street, astonishing the neighbors, startling the dogs into frenzied barking. The time demands something out of the ordinary. Otherwise it just gets lost it seems in other years.