"Looks like its hot for good."  said the obligated and fatherly weatherman, tucked beneath my arm.

Cold mornings and cold nights bare the apropriate signiature of a month with so much "Im sure." attatched to it.

Hot mid days strangled by the seatbelt-jacket paradox seem to find a way to discomfort the driver until he wrestles the sweat off without clogging up the 5.

Post work parking spot stretches get beaten by the wind of deserts what still garrison the force of typical and violent fluctuations in temperature.

But its all funky in a Toys R Us parkinglot in Burbank.

"When I was a kid November was cold AF" I say to a breeze, warm and cold all at once.

"This is some Vegas shit." I feel, quantifying my steadfast beleif in something so big and ancient I have no place placing myself as a stantion between it.

So I shut my eyes and walked toward the truck.

Prentend Im in Veas.

Where wind like this is suposed to be.

Where the artifice of civilization dosnt trick the occupant into thinking the natural occourances surrounding it owe anything to the staccato C7 somehow ringing out in his or her memory as if the artifice itself were some perminant and imovable object,

But rather a place where time and experiance share some stupid, embarrasing, and unexpected chuckle in they key of "Everything is changing."

While the conductor waves his batton , holding still.