Grey December, early.

Here we are in deep and dark December and I have a pile of work hanging over me that's accumulating like the blizzards we used to get when the world was some degrees cooler and maybe some measures saner.

The tops of the buildings I see over in midtown, some blocks to the east from our lonely outpost on 11th Avenue, are shrouded in fog. The air is damp with impending rain.

The office is bright in its obsequious fluorescence but quiet. The desks are silent sentinels, waiting to be manned--or womanned--waiting for noise and work to begin.

I have Coltrane's "Favorite Things" on my iPod. A masterpiece of melody and improvisation. Wild, yet restrained. Free, yet tethered. It was something I needed to hear this morning. Its dissonance and euphony.

We are, happily, coming to the end of this benighted year. This horrible year where hate has been awakened and energized. Where a rabid know-nothing has emerged as the leader of the free-world. God only knows what will happen. If dissent will be crushed, like the poor will be under their heavier than ever tax burden.

But that's enough for now.

It's early in the morning.

And like Frost, 
I have promises to keep.
And miles to go,
Before I sleep.