Is There a Time Traveler?

Autumn relieved summer in a graceful illusion of the progression of the year. I went back to my motel and my accursed third novel. Not much riding got done there, but there was a lot of deep thought. By the bay, winter days were quiet, save for the occasional screech of a seagull or the pattering of mice in the motel walls. There was actually one specific recollection I kept returning to, and worked on seeing and experiencing more of it. All of it.