Bobby Lee, Bobby Lee, I don't think I can breathe, and the walls get closer every single day

I was riding my bike to work yesterday at 7:30 in the morning when it seemed as if the entire world was still asleep. It was overcast and about thirty degrees and the wind was blowing in steady from the river (I assume that's where it came from) and I had a moment while walking by bike across the street. I don't know exactly how to describe it, except that it was completely still and completely silent except for the low moaning of the wind (a lower sound than the high pitched Bronte novel howling in Scotland) that blew the leaves off the ground in spiral formations. It felt like something from a movie and there I was walking down the middle of the street, not a car in sight. I felt like there should have been some sort of soft gentle voice over that comes at the end of a movie when the main character is walking away into the sunrise. And I feel like such a miserable writer, or maybe i'm just tired, but i can't verbally put my finger on what was so moving about that kind of solitude, only that I had to stop and catch my breath.