Sometimes in the spring, I awake to the most beautiful of New York mornings. The sky is overcast and rain is emminent, but not ominous. It is just a matter of fact. People are walking unhurredly under the window and all the normal sounds of the day are going on as they should: Fritos truck engine rumbling at the beer distributor, breaks squeeking on the old delivery truck at the Chinese meat packing place, bus stop squells, inevitable baseball field maintenence interludes. Over all of it is the most luxurious glow of absolute yellow gold that I have only also ever seen in Prague, weirdly though when it's sunny. Everything brown comes especially alive, trees without buds, high-rise co-ops, sidewalks all seem to glow from all sides. It is dim-lit like candleflame but warm and beckoning to the eye like gilt on a pictureframe. It is the perfect window weather and encouraging to epic album listening the way NYC's blue skies beg for the latest hip hop track or some lovely indiepop comp. This is the best time to be writing, looking out the window, listening.

UPDATE:
About two minutes after writing this, it started snowing. How strange! This weekend it was absolute t-shirt time. Global warming wonders never cease.