William Hazel Writes
Books. Blogs. Travelogues.

Medium blue suit. Black mock turtle. Hair died blacker. Dude’s sitting beside begging me to be frozen in time. His seems about ’79. I’ve got co-workers who stopped around ’85. Our 21 st  Century is already a quarter past, but it’s hard to see sometimes. The woman door gliding in the classy slacks and fitted blouse. Accenting scarf. Very Katherine Hepburn. Circa ’37. And she’s young. Dressing old works with youth. Dressing young works less with old. I’ll keep that in the back

They call it an hour gained but it all feels irretrievably lost. The Moon near full took precedence. Bluing no evidence there had ever been a summer.   The Dark Hour is the beginning of Winter in my mind. Calendric precision aside, the reversal of time turns my season cold from warm. The jet lag first week of a morning brain dawning in confused ache. The evening commute burned into a night grind of near midnight feel filled with head-on headlights refraction.   October ghosts

A haunted walking tour with added spirit. She wore a silly hat. A dad hat. Black. With a little ghost. A silly ghost. And she had another silly ghost on her black polo. That’s how we knew she was the ghost tour guide.   I believe in ghosts. Take my paranormal experiences as profoundly genuine. Having moved past the maybe, maybe-nots a long time ago, I am often diving into deeper disquisitions of the unexplained.   And I like ghost tours. I can explore a haunted tour any time