Something's in the way of the heavens over here, over England. Clouds at all levels. And a low sun, even at midday so that there's always a wonderful light shining through. It's never an empty sky in the winter, and I think that's what makes all the difference, what set it apart from the other seasons. Things happen in the winter. It's alight and sometimes frightful to look at. It's not calm, and it isn't boring, and because of all that I think it's difficult to tackle. I guess the same could be said about life really. It's not a far off comparison, life and that dreadful season. A real life anyways. Not some fucking fairy tale played out on the TV realities. What a fucking thing to tackle, life, in the breadth of a single season. The darkest. The wettest. The weirdest. The most restless one to live through, or at the very least I could say it's the one my mind's most attuned to.
The sky's mostly gray through the days, but when the setting of the sun does come, it's that most beautiful of things each twilight that only comes once the same way each lifetime. You never see the same one twice. Not in the winter anyways.
That's what's running through my head on the highway back from John's. He'd given my arm a nervous pinch at our good-bye and I smiled, squeezed his shoulder light, and in his beady little eyes I said, "good-bye."
And Derrick raced us off into the painted countryside, back down to Derby (pronounced dar-by), that hell-man, on the side of the road I'm not used to.
