Maybe it's the leaves turning, the creeping cold of longer, darker nights. Maybe it's the same old sh*t as yesterday, the tired kabuki on the rotten stage, the cracked mirrors and the thinning smoke and the waning applause as smiles twist to sneers. The candles of home (dim and dark and horrid as they seemed so long ago) have gained a strange brightness, though I know that house is just as broken as this place so faraway...just as unfinished, just as doomed.

It's one of those years, yes, and if I survive the snows I will remember it.