It hangs in the air

I love when the world turns gray.
When the headlights glow yellow in the fog like candles and the rain tracks run down the window like subway lines. The rubber tires grind the leaves into a pulp, press them into the concrete like stamps and the wind blows them down the sidewalks like red and yellow sprinkles. And the rivers of rains flow down the streets, pooling into lazy puddles, running towards the sea.