more tales of the winter city

This town has been cover in a fog for weeks now, sun blocked from sight, and thin sheets of ice in patchs on the street. Meetings took place late in the evening in the bars and pool halls all over town. Bar stools and beer, pool shots pass, handshakes and smoke breaks, and it's all known, that the world is crumbling around us, and I can't say I'm the only one who say it coming. So I'm writing in my journal, and not even sure if I where to show anyone the word if they would be the same as the ones I wrote. My life has become grammaticly incorrect, I mutter to myself, as I take a healthy chug of cheap beer before walking over to the pool table to take my shot. I'm playing agaist a young jedi I recently met who's skill and knowledge of the table are quite impressive. We've taken the conversation of lucid dreaming and experiencing the silet sound that sings to us all. Freezing fog, and I'm calling for rain, tonight will be dedicated to rain songs, hopefully coming in with a warm from. There is recongnition is the faces of many that met on the streets of this fogged over city. And all the word I can concieve of to describe a monad of this experience of the winter city don't come close to the truth of it. But those faces know, they've seen, just as I have that as the days get shorter one day they will again get longer. They remember the summit over looking the valley below, the winding river that runs through this town, and how the speckles of light are reflected off the water on a glorious evening in June.