October Gloom.

It was a dark and stormy night.

OK, let’s try again.

The late October night impressed a wet and heavy blanket of near-impenetrable blackness on the land and all that moved upon it. Very little did. Most were hidden in shelter from the barrage of arboreal debris which clattered and cracked on the surface of the pool-strewn country lane, while half naked trees screeched in fear of the roaring north westerly gale.

So, is that an example of lyrical writing, or is it to be derided as mere purple prose? I think I probably prefer Snoopy’s version.

I wrote a second attempt in my head, but couldn’t bring myself to type it up. The weak, palpitating sense of lowness that comes with chronic fatigue is sitting in my chest tonight, and life sometimes grows discouragingly tedious.