The wind today turned people inside out with their umbrellas. Most of the commuters looked miserable, as if seared from the inside, making their skins sallow and green, over-exposed to the elements.
It could very well have been an "X-Files" episode. Maybe it is.
Last night, I had earth-moving dreams of sadness. Tears and weeping. Departures and seasons of abandonment. And questions. Questions unbearably honest and incongruent to how life really is.
My worry bleeds around the edges of muteness, catching sound inside forty winks, inside caverns upon caverns of twenty-seven years of comings and goings, obstructions and missing planks in fences that let me slip through, sometimes.
Today, has been, in a damp, grey way, about traveling and wondering what's around the corner. Will it be wind so strong that inside-out isn't bending enough? Or a harmless, almost contented, breeze?
And so, the rain continues into evening, into darkness, into what may come.