Its' nearly October. Sunny, but crisp. Some things always happen in September and October. Like Damien Rice, black tea-all sorts, a desire to be poetic and lyrical and alone, details-noticed, candle wax, faded brick, foggy windows, and chimney smoke.
And I always feel, during these months, as if life is taking place in some poorly lit dance studio. Made up of hardwood and tall windows with a vaulted ceiling. Where echoes and reflections are let loose, sparkling fast, and every moment is so well orchestrated, that all you can do is take it in slowly.
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