Shall we have just one more glass? he says, and we are powerless to disagree, never having been good with turning down alcohol. The night feels like a thursday; my alarm clock looms heavy over my head as I stumble home under deep blue skies. It was supposed to rain tonight; this is the summer of no prediction. Summer.
Has it already been a year, Stockholm? Am I already spending a second summer here, the adventure fading, the comforts amassing?
If the landing is soft,
you will fall.
If the abyss is deep
You will leap.
It occurs to me
that my days are spent
on such soft cushions.
It occurs to me
that the leap
is mine
to take.
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