Chopin’s nocturne started to play in C minor as I began to pull over, and the rain slowed to whispers. There were no sounds of traffic, no passing lights, not even the wind moved. the rain beat on the glass and something in me felt disconnected, a little unworldly, lonesome. The world stood still, crepuscular and delicately poised in the background of a memory, a problematically perennial engulfing little memory.
In a bookstore, a museum, on a rainy day through the windowpane of a cafe – on a chair, on the train, on the platform in the dark, on the bus, on the elevator: a traveller, a coffee connoisseur, a historian, a revolutionary man with many things to say who spoke a lot. He had a face with a face, and eyes that burned. I was tired.
The mood is different. The leaves have all fallen. We seek solace in different ways. There is nothing but quietened birds and quieter rain, the darkness grows more pronounced.
At the culmination, will you fight or fly? Far away the air is warmer, the trees are green, evenings pink and quiet, there is a little decency far away. There is hum of distant traffic and no accountability.