November was a time of gales across the forgotten southern highway

November was a time of gales across the forgotten southern highway; the dreamed road of decay.  There dark land mixed in painted sky all overturned.  The season itself was the plow, grinding all our lives new.  Aloysius wanted the old ways most left here, needed them to mend himself.  He was broken or antiquated like some rusted implement forgot in the rain; and needed someone to remember.  He was like a spirit bound up with a stretch of road.  Nothing material save for a few tall tales a meme or monad spiritual.