![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jazzfishI walked out the door this morning into a perfect autumn. A loose fog had settled over the street, just enough to soften the edges of all the buildings, and the pin-oak leaves were thick on the ground and wondrously crunchy and scuffable.
I'd managed to forget my workbadge, though I remembered it before I'd gotten very far, and had to turn around and go home to get it. Walking into the apartment building felt... wrong, somehow. Like this was not the home that goes with this weather, this glorious rightness. (It needed more brown inside, and less white.)
But once I'd gotten to work I couldn't see a thing out the window for the cloud. That made me happier than anything since the cinnamon-swirl french toast on Satyrday morning.
I'd managed to forget my workbadge, though I remembered it before I'd gotten very far, and had to turn around and go home to get it. Walking into the apartment building felt... wrong, somehow. Like this was not the home that goes with this weather, this glorious rightness. (It needed more brown inside, and less white.)
But once I'd gotten to work I couldn't see a thing out the window for the cloud. That made me happier than anything since the cinnamon-swirl french toast on Satyrday morning.