Afternoon was dark again, like one of Pissarro's moody paintings, all smoky gray tufts of cloud scudding below a blue-gray atmosphere which, as evening fell, was tinged in the west with the faintest hint of lavender. With dusk, sprinkles began to fall, turning to drizzle, and now to a steady rainfall that fills the night with white noise. Gusts of wind lift the drapes and bring the cold to every corner of the room. For all its melancholy, the moment nonetheless has a serenity to it. It's a good night to be moody, listening to the pines moan and the world wash away. It's a bit like being at peace with death, I suppose.