“Fallish.”

It’s the last day of summer in this localized micro-geography. A sunny 80 degrees.

Tomorrow the wind ramps up and blows in a front filled with chilly rain.

The afternoon following, the daytime high drops by 20 degrees, so they say, and the night low as well, brushing right up against hard freeze.

This is exactly normal, in my twenty years of experience at dwelling here. The change comes mid-October. The past few years, the heat extended itself toward November. Not this time.

So many things did not get done, in that month of weather that was neither too hot nor cold. Instead of incremental progress, the line was merely held, in the most urgent areas.

In others, it fell apart just like the battlefront at Vulhedar, and concurrently … it turns out that for the most part, text threads are the new hotel california–you can check out of them any time you like, but you can never leave.

Sticking a fork into the notifications is the next best half-measure available.

There’s just the right song for the micro-zeitgeist, meteorological, psychological, interpersonal …

Lock the gates Goofy.

Take my hand. Thank you so much, Lia. Bless your eternal soul, Warren.

(A thing I did not know before:
“Splendid isolation is a term used to describe the 19th-century British diplomatic practice of avoiding permanent alliances from 1815 to 1902”.)

Ah Neutrality, sing of its many virtues once more, but as we wait alone together for peace in our time (whatever peace could mean, livin’ in the heart of the war machine)–please to be sending the lawyers, the guns, and the money–you take up the spill-guitar in the first place precisely because you are an inarticulate person, trying to make it one day at a time

After the Fall.