“Whats o’clock?” It wants a quarter to twelve, And to-morrow’s doomsday. - Tim Powers

Weird evening," he said. "With this wind and all."
Gladhand nodded. "Several hundred years ago it was considered a valid defense in a murder trial if you could prove the Santa Ana wind was blowing when the murder was committed. The opinion was that the dry, hot wind made everybody so irritable that any murder was almost automatically excusable. Or so I've heard, anyway."
Thomas pondered it. "There might be something to that," he said.
"No," Gladhand said. "There isn't. Start sanctioning heat-of-anger crimes and you've lost the last hold on the set of conventions we call…society, civilization.

Now she was giving him a worried look. “Say something sane.”
He smiled bleakly, his eyes on the cars ahead. “You and I are not normal people.”
“Huh.” She shook her head. “That’s not sane, that’s just true.”

Art, like a lot of things, is a lost art.