The immense melancholy of summer evenings sets in. It enters you like setting sunrays across your chest, just below the clavicle, and then floats gently down through your belly, landing heavy. The way that the Manhattan skyline looks at twilight, when you're in Brooklyn watching a movie under the stars, fireflies in the bushes and children up past their bedtime. The idea that everything may just be starting, but you remember your mortality in the same breath.
I walked ten miles around the island today. It told you there was time yet.
Not a lot
but endless.
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