The words aren't coming to me this morning. There's a freezing drizzle falling, grey upon grey upon grey. Same murky, troubling absence of light we've been subjected to for what seems like weeks now. Someone flipped the switch and forgot where it was. I've got ten thousand projects to work on, ten thousands things I need to say and do...all at a standstill—and I'm not sure why.
We're staring down the holidays and paid work has been winding down. One last magazine article to write. It's been a good year. A strange, hard year as well. Maybe that's what it is...an overflow to absorb and distill and digest before I can move again with certainty. Hoping the levee holds and the flood recedes. Sandbags pressed against a mighty king tide.
Until then there's November...and the melancholy songs of Montreal.