The Four Seasons (not Vivaldi)

I will have to say that the days and nights are beginning to haunt me a little, I am not quite sure exactly why, but perhaps it is because I am suffering from the aftereffects of Dance to the Music of Time (Powell as translated into a television series), and with the bunch of randomness and nonsense that I am doing at the moment, none of it making much sense and/or seeming even less important than I would have allowed it to be (which was, in fact, rather low on the scale of importance anyway), that every little and great thing seems destined to fade away- our names, ourselves, everything that made and defined or thought was defining us. Perhaps it better to say "me" rather than "us" so as to allow all the blame to fall squarely on my own lap, on my own head, and so be it.  And was Widmerpool a saint of sorts, a devil longing for redemption and raging in a sea of indifference but with a crumb tossed to him in the form of someone who neither was interested in him nor cared but merely tolerated him for chance for luck for how one grows up to be, a fool more foolish and laughable and no less pathetic and tragic than a clown in a circus or an innocent corrupted by time, age and his milieu which he could neither live in, break out of, or break entirely until he himself was redeemed or broken?

Oh, winter will be here before you know it.