Remains of the Day

Right now outside is Cloudy and Damp. It's been raining more or less consistently all day. the window is open and Actually Cool Air is coming in--intoxicating combination of dead leaves and wet pavement. The sound of the dryer forms a sort of bass for the competing melodies of the outside (rain and dull traffic) and inside (currently the Braveheart film score). I'm reading Hardy for my Victorian novel class.
I haven't gotten out of my pajamas yet. It's nearly 3.
Today is just the sort of day it ought to be by rights.
There is nothing momentous, nothing profound, no mental troubles that have distilled to the point of reporting.
Life is in limbo. Most of it is, I think. It's easy to get sidetracked.
I'm glad the rain is here. I've been waiting for weeks.

I have a superpower

It is to plan a party for 12 people and end up inviting 20 the day before.
Seriously, I'm really good at it.

October, you slay me.

I wish that all major life events happened in October. Because it is the most sublimely, ripely mellow of months. It is perfect and golden and crimson and splendid in the fullest sense of splendidness, and it towers and booms and melts and whispers and beams all at the same time, and it is just plain the best thing ever.
O October, I wish I could celebrate my birthday and Christmas and Thanksgiving and Valentine's and everything wonderful during your thirty-one days, because you are perfect, and then I could be connected to you somehow, other than just living through you every twelve months.

I need to write something out.
There's a quotation I picked up somewhere along the line that goes something like this:

"Courage does not always roar. Sometimes it is the quiet voice at the end of the day that says only 'I will try again tomorrow.'"

I will try again tomorrow.

(That's all I really needed to say here, I guess.)