Disjointed

"Heal Yourself" by Ruthie Foster was playing on his iPod, a new song that
sounded like it belonged in a different era. As he rolled to a stop, it
felt like he wasn't where he knew he was. The road was one he traveled
daily. He was a little earlier than usual, but there was nothing foreign
about his surroundings and yet today, it felt like it was. It was out
there. In his car, he was in a protected, warm bubble. But outside, it
was less than 50. And there was definitely a lack of color. Just bright
gray nothingness, with black tree-shaped outlines fading in and out of
the dense fog. A silver ring in the sky suggested that the sun was up, but
to look around, it wasn't day, it wasn't night. And as he continued to
wait his turn to proceed, he thought briefly of another place, and how a
morning like this probably meant slight humidity, bright sun and stifling
desert air, the kind that filled him with nostalgia and elation. He knew,
however, if he dwelled, his mind would work overtime to list all the
reasons the oasis wasn't real and probably never would be. And there was
no reason for that so he quickly shifted back to the present. Water
spritzed his car window, as if flicked by the hand of God, certainly not
enough to turn on the windshield wipers. Finally the intersection cleared
and it was time to move on.