It is the first night I sleep with the window open. When I step into the street, there’s just the slightest hint of cool air: the season’s first crisp. The forecast still drones on about summer heat, but you know the difference when it arrives.
Your brain kicks back into gear, firing up like a rusty old machine, oil sputtering and the ignition coughing. It is time for a change, you are ready. I imagine a death sentence, being given six months left to live. What would I do?
The answers are simple, arrive quickly from my very depths.
I would gather all my words, make sure the stories had a chance to survive without me. Then I would tell you I love you.
That is really all there is.
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