Wilma!

How grave. How wonderful and morbid. Not quite November, yet past November. The omega of the names. If November is a one that loves good storms to rival its Sister September, then we may see Alpha and Beta lapping up the weary and beaten shore.

Six weeks left to go. How mortifying. The Hallowed Eve is surely ripe this year for the walking of the deads. When midnight comes on Monday—that's Halloween!—we may see the wisp of Death's clammy hands, but how can bones sweat? Perhaps by touching the sweat of fear, of sickness, strokes, of heart attacks. Maybe it's water from rain and flood; tears of many a weeping one, if their eyes weren't yet wrung dry.

Is it a "sea change"? Is it seeing a "hungry ocean Increasing store with loss and loss with store"? Is it to say, "When I have seen such interchange of state / Or state itself, confounded to decay; / Ruins hath taught me thus to ruminate" a lot.