| October overslept today, then burst forth from rumpled sheets, rumbling into foggy socks. No time, even for cinnamon tea, and she’s out the door in a tumble of grey oilskin, stuffing titian locks into her Brimmer. She rakes up breeze-webs with her passing and I feel her moving through me on the platform, in the rain. The dead are riding the trains again, reading newspapers over our shoulders and whispering to the unattended. |


Comments
We should *totally* be LJ friends :)