I was tired. So tired. The sky was too; a pale, frigid shade that was less blue than white.

Barely. It was the definition of "barely."

Barely alive. Barely blue. It was dying. The dying of the light.

I thought suddenly that this must be what death feels like: a cold, tired sunset on the first Sunday of October.

Some deaths, anyway: the fading away kind. The slow, somber, slipping kind. The icy chill draping down on a burnt forest kind. The pensive, not-altogether-unpleasant-but-sad-in-a-way-too kind.

Sad like barely blue October twilight. Barely blue, barely October, barely twilight. I thought of tugging on threadbare mittens over bare hands. A sadness so lovely it could only be described in that way: barely-blue-October-twilight. Another brand new emotion to add to my list. How could everything familiar feel so different? Every moment, a new feeling.