winter foreshadowing at the gate

The Devil and the Monk
The clouds are so thick today, the sun has no direction, light merely comes from up. It's as if the sky was removed by some photoshop freak who took out everything blue or bright and replaced it with a gluey, blank film of gray. They've swallowed the mountains, the ocean, and the tops of every building over fifteen stories high. They are omnipresent in every direction, painting everyone in a gentle, damp blanket of light sog. A continual light drizzle with a persistent dewy texture that slowly soaks in, drenching clothes slowly by osmosis.

It is not a terrible rain, a driving, slashing torrent of rain. It is merely misty. People are moist today. They are standing in archways, dripping, shaking umbrellas, cursing cold feet, disliking the rain, and refusing to smile at the bus-stop. Instead they stare seriously up the street, as far back from the curb as possible, torn between the hope they will see their bus and the illogical worry that their legs will be drenched by a passing car. (With rain this thin, there are no real puddles).

The Secret Thoughts of Harold Lawrence Windcrampe