an unrehearsed universe

Self-Pity

Rain, enough to crowd the sidewalk with umbrellas. Wind and wretchedness slide in between a turned up collar and subway-flushed skin. This is the weather of missed connections, of exhausted discontent. No puddle waders. No upturned faces. Water aplenty, but a gloom insufficient for atmosphere. Heathcliff, alone on his moor, would not have ventured forth. The storm spins discarded cadet greys and blues dispassionately, observing the forms. And thus, autumn, keeping company with melancholy, sulks.