soapboxdiner

My own end of the season

Never is the passage of time more acute than at the end of this season. The skies go leaden and leather shoes become sodden with rain. Bared shoulders get covered with thick woolen sweaters and happy raised chins are replaced with heads bent to the wind. The biting stillness of pre-dawn wakings, stagnant cloisters of shrunken work places, frenzied, fatigued withdrawals at dusk. Crawling on freeways slick from frost and exhaust, reflecting on the absence of light. Staring out foggy glazed windows, that is when I feel time pass.

7:32 pm - 09.02.02
previous | next

Home | Archives | Profile | Notes | DiaryLand | Random Entry