Feels like leaving lately.  It's a grand and terrible magnificence that moves over me, yet it leaves me as still and gentle as a snowy field.  Robert Frost has been here.  So has everyone who has ever consciously considered their own approaching end. 

I seem to be taking lots of pictures of meaningless little scenes, as if photographing these delicacies of light—familiar forms and mundane places—might somehow preserve the unutterably precious moments observed by them. 

And I am late again for work.