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It was the time of year, the time of day, for a small insistent sadness to pass into the texture of things. Dusk, silence, iron chill. Something lonely in the bone.

Don DeLillo
Lonely, Sadness, Years
Don DeLillo (2011). “White Noise”, p.66, Pan Macmillan
It was the time of year, the time of day, for a small insistent sadness to pass into the texture of things. Dusk, silence, iron chill. Something lonely in the bone.