The view from here, November 30th

Hoo, boy.  Ol' Man Anxiety's got me by the throat lately.  Not for any reason I can name.  He's just here chewing on me.  Quoth Good Mister Minor, "You're runnin' around here like a bug waiting to get squashed by a hammer."  Candid, as ever.

These are dying days.  Cold and bright, like a crone's eyes.

Rumors of war and catastrophe, ghastly keening ghost-clouds, pass with the wind.  In Iran, they stormed the British embassy.  At home, a convicted murderer, outraged that Governor Kitzhaber spared his life by placing a moratorium on executions in Oregon, called the Governor a "paper cowboy."  Such grim curiosities are legitimate cause for anxiety, no?  What if they are omens?  What if they are precursors?

The sun sinks too quickly.  The solstice is still three weeks out and I'm already feeling crowded by the darkness.  It grows out of the shadows.  It suffocates the light. 

Is there some horror out there that we can't yet see?  Are the gods holding their breath as we slide toward the Abyss?