November 10th, 2005



There is the faintest hint of fog in the air, revealed more by scent than by sight. Earlier, there were smears of thin cloud which hugged the gibbous moon and caught a red halo of its light, so that it looked like the bright pupil of a baleful eye with makeup on its lids. Taurus has risen, but I've still not seen any fireballs.

This evening, there was one of those moments when something almost clicks in my mind- some scent or flavor or perhaps a turning of the air induces almost the right combination of brain chemicals to make me imagine that something remarkable is about to happen, that perhaps I will discover something very important which will reveal some mystery I didn't even know existed. These events are like little, stillborn epiphanies, and they always leave me feeling as though, if my brain were just a little bit more screwed up than it is, I'd be able to imagine that I knew the answer to everything. It's an oddly pleasurable sensation while it's happening, but the aftermath is always a bit depressing, like having a lottery ticket that's one number off from being a winner. My hypochondria tells me it's probably an electro-chemical brain dysfunction, and someday it will kill me. My hypochondria has no romance.