Morose

It's that time of year when more things begin falling apart. Quite a few oak leaves have already fallen, and the heat rapidly desiccates them so that, when I tread on them during my dusk walks,they make loud crunching noises as they disintegrate. My foot sometimes feels as though it's falling apart too, but it makes no crunchy noise. It just gets a sharp pain as I step—or maybe the noise it makes is drowned out by the noise of the crumbling leaves.

The day was noticeably cooler and the evening air is very nice, but the late light had that pale quality I always sense as melancholy. To me, September is something I have to go through to reach autumn. It isn't summer and it isn't fall and it isn't the best of both. It's just this period when I tend to be dissatisfied and somewhat morose, and that's in a good year. This year I'd like to skip September altogether.

I'm lousy company even for myself right now. I'll go punish myself with television.