The wind is truly howling outside the window. I suppose it could be a bit romantic, in a George MacDonald book kind of way; but it’s also kind of creepy, like Tell-Tale Heart or Fall of the House of Usher, as long as we’re comparing life to literature.
In reality it’s just a herald of a really nasty day tomorrow. Cold has finally reached the sunny South, and a cold has finally reached me. Not quite yet, but the sore throat I’ve had all day is a harbinger of doom (I’m sticking with a theme of gloomy metaphors and similes today. Blame the weather).
Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit,
And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes,
I will be brief.
If I lived in Denmark, I’d make lots of Hamlet jokes.