It's December again. Summer is long over; short days, long nights, and a reminder that we're all dying, and not that slowly. Haruki wrote:
The bloom of summer came home to me after all these years. The tidewater smell, the cry of distant steam whistles, the touch of girls' skin, the lemon scent of hair rinse, the evening breeze, fond hopes, summer dreams... Even so, everything was ever so slightly off, as if little by little the tracing paper had slipped irretrievably from the lines of summers past.
Anyways, 10 p.m., and I'm off to work, trying to put the tracing paper back in place for one more night.