All faces are grey.
No one has fluorescence. The gloom of autumn is overshadowing my sun. It is not sadness. It is not confusion. It is disconnect. I am separate from the rest, but not different.
I do not wish for another, and I wish for less. Death attempts to impose its memory on me when my lids close. And it succeeds through the rest of my day.
The clouds are doing their job. They are raining on this parade.
Why does it seem all involved in my life are all ill-contented?
Why the sudden lapse in happiness?
Where has the gratitude for God gone?
It has gone with the sun.
Leave gloom, clouds, doom when shrouds loom. If the sun wont show its shy face, then tungsten it is.
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