Gypsy Bell explained (sort of)

Once upon a February afternoon, I drove out to a lady's house to pick 
up some stuff. She lived in one of those cute suburban neighborhoods 
that's been around long enough to get some character but not long 
enough to be imposing. After some frantic attempts to remember how 
to get there, I parked and walked up the steps to the house. I didn't dare 
ring the doorbell, because she had a newborn. So I knocked. And 
knocked. And knocked. About a half an hour later, I gave up and got 
back into my car.

On the drive home, I crested the big hill on Route 2 twice (I love how 
impossible it is to get directly from one place to another in Boston). The 
first time, I was going West, and the sun was a ball of fire in the clear 
winter sky, and I could literally see it move as it set. Two minutes later, 
I was heading East, and as I crested the hill again, I saw all of Boston 
set before me in all its sun-touched splendor. The clouds had all been 
hiding over the bay, I suppose, waiting for the moon. Now they were 
violet and every other impossible shade only found in flowers, rainbows, 
and sunsets- those things little girls draw in kindergarten.

The song on the tape in my car at the time was L'arc-en-Ciel's "Kaze ni 
Kienai de" (Don't disappear into the wind), which has this lovely repetition 
that gets stuck in my head: "mou ii yo, mou ii yo, I'm always knocking on 
your door" ("mou ii yo" =? "Enough already, Allright already, That's enough, 
etc."). I turned the song off and on as sections of this poem ran through 
my head (to a different tune, though). For some reason, that song didn't 
make me sad or melancholy. Maybe it's because I love driving ^_^.

Style-wise, this one kind of reminds me of Bina's "Riddle and Reason", 
though "Gypsy Bell" is not as good, of course.