It's that time of year when the horrors begin to creep. Not the thrill of Halloween or the romance of falling leaves, but the cold landscape sleeping.
If you can call it sleep.
You can feel trouble gathering out here in the country, between the lowering skies and the rocks that jut out like bones. It's not personal, it's just November, and the Goddess of Thorns will not make it easy.
In the cities, it's safer. All those people and the lights and the shops. You can ignore the hostility that seethes beneath the surface, the landscape that wants rid of you.
It's tired. It's had enough. If you listen closely, you can almost hear it moan. It's not personal. You mustn't think I haven't tried to be friends. But I was born here - I know it like my the back of my hand.
The bleached grass, the bone chill, the grim specter of the sleeping earth.
It always makes me sick to my stomach, this feeling. It gives me the cold grue and no mistake. Yet I tried not to fight it today, tried to see what it would teach me.
In my mind, I could see miles of limestone and windblown earth, swept by overwhelming dread.
I never did like the sight of those hills in the distance.
There are certain cold days when the clouds are low and the atmosphere wraps you like a blanket, safe from the landscape's uneasy dreams. But not today. Most definitely not today.
Days like today are the thorns and spines and psychic wounds that come with the dying of the year.
Well, I think you succeeded in conveying, to this non-Texan, the eerie horrors of the unquiet land.
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