Low clouds and cold rain. Our summery November has come to an end, and I’m excited to see my breath again.
Sleep has an oddly moral dimension: those with a clear conscience sleep like babies, and if someone behaves atrociously, we wonder how they sleep at night. When I tell people I cannot sleep, they ask what is wrong. Am I anxious about the future or haunted by my past? Am I eating poorly, drinking too much coffee, or watching scary movies before bed? No, I say, I’ve simply forgotten how to do it. Perhaps I sound like someone who claims they can’t remember how to walk.
The pulse of distant highway traffic in the rain is the most soothing sound I know.
