This weekend I killed a pair of shoes in the rain soaked cobblestone that Fulton St. turns into approaching water. It was night time, we'd ended our work for Sunday. K had to carry me, but gave up after I tried and failed to hold our umbrella in one hand. It was heavy.

I think about Fall, and was reminded of its nearness this morning while waiting for the bus. It was chilly, it was lit unlike dawn, but dusk. It occurred to me that winter needn't be stagnant, my great fear, but can be a time to turn in, keep warm (bao nuan), and make things with my hands. Also, to read. That's okay too. Summer is the time to live outside, to soak in storms and sun, to spend: money and otherwise.

One hour this morning in Barnes and Noble, reviewing September issues across fashion print media. Thrill in my bones at those pages. Loves, you don't give up so soon. How fall is always the shortest of the seasons, I do not care to ponder.

The eve of this year next, in the tail of this transition. What more, what else, to do? I turn twenty-five just once. I return to Miami after three and a half years. November is a lovely purring word.

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