Clanging bells have caught the

wind and I cannot account for much more than the circumstance of now, here, this. Summer has brought with it blistering heat and sweltering nights that drag on while I sleep, to wake and acknowledge the clarity that comes with grogginess. It is the exact moment between dream and conscious awareness of the day that I find myself comfortable with the ascribed meaning of my daily routine, while the rest of the day, well fuck, the rest of it seems entirely hazy and bottomless. I am but a product of my environment. My environment is hardly a luxury. But I find the groggy moment and the awareness to be a force within itself. It pushes and pulls and moves the scene along. It carries an infectious kind of energy, moves from the bottom up, thrusting me into the light of a merciless sun where I am entirely exposed and without guilt. I cannot be guilty anymore.
There are so many emotions and so many people tied down to routine, to hate, to predation.
I ripped out the void they could not fill themselves and recognized the new shape, knew exactly what to do with it- not the shape of a god or a philosophy or the meaning of life, but with the wind and with the heat and with the knowledge of autumn's onset. Only a few months now.
Back to the crisper air, the wool, the spices.
Back.
Back.
Back.
A time when the blue hour dominates the day, if only for a few moments. A time when peeling potatoes keeps a man humble and teaches him to bite his tongue. A time when hauling logs and splitting wood means something more than labor, but rather warmth and survival. A time to soak in the color of leaves and grass and to remember the dead ones before us, reviling in the unity they bring us, and the reminder of where we are headed. A time to forget the salted taste of sweat and to watch the shetland dogs run the fields at dusk, without fear for copperheads. Season change and we remember. We remember something.
Back to the better days of childhood and Halloween.
Back.
Back.
Back.