January Ghosts

These days are dreams, or ghosts. Pale gray and timeless, haunted by the steady fall of water from an indistinct sky. I am suspended in the hours. The urge to sleep rises and recedes like an oneiric tide. The urge to move -- well, that has faded to translucency.

These days hover. Not so much progressing, as slowly fading. They fade-to-white in the morning and fade-to-black at night. In-between, they...endure.

Or we endure them.

I do find a sort of dreamy grace to days like these. A Gothic tinge. They really aren't all that bad.

Except for the halo of emptiness that surrounds them.

And the saturation of gray.