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I am thankful for this weather, for every degree drop forces the realization that things may not really be so bad. I'm still singing, even when my mouth is closed.

This is when I come alive, in thick tights and tight jackets. With wind biting my calves and wrists and fingertips, when lit cigarettes become sources of adrenaline and testaments of life, I feel suddenly extroverted, expressive, calm.

There is something I am braving, there is some other that I am fighting for with every exhaled breath. These are the days I will pen later with a nostalgic hand, and the hot and temperamental months that preceded this moment will be swept like fallen leaves into piles, fragments of arguments and desperate confessions collecting on street corners and neighboring yards. I am willing to let out what I've learned, able finally to throw away, to look away from bare June.

This is the season in which scant glances bespeak the loudest commands, where haughty dispositions are exchanged for limitless juxtapositions of skin. Dances of limbs become the favored mode of communication: soft lips, wistful feet, outstretched hands.

These are days for books and for burnings, for recalling previous fires and for bathing in them, somewhere between imagination and memory. This is me becoming myself becoming someone else again, vulnerable, weightless and gasping for air.

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October 2014

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