I’ve been meaning to take a turn around the park across from my building for quite awhile now. The leaves have all changed color and have blanketed every surface in an orangey-red cushion. The park is largely abandoned now; not that it was ever a bustling part of the metropolis. Now people just take their dogs for a quick spin and head back where they came from as quickly as possible.
The sky in London is grey. Just grey. Unending, stretching as far as the eye can see. Fog hovers just atop the buildings, particularly in the mornings, and at night the sky glows mauve from reflected lights.
When the weather is like this I feel such a connection to the British authors, Charles Dickens in particular. Neil Gaiman as well. When everything is dusky and damp, the colors so vibrant due to the saturation of water and the dull sky, I feel like I can turn a corner into any world at all.