I wonder whether we will know what to do when October arrives, if our desires will turn to paper and fall with the rest of the leaves at our feet. I don’t remember who, but I was talking to somebody at breakfast about the hardness of water, the softness of it, the way it can take things over with just atoms in space, in time. I rest my head, heavy from the ripening fruit inside it, on the warm wooden countertop, feeling small crumbs and other fractions of universe press their sharp edges into my face. The discomfort is comfortable, and I stay there while the world rotates, while people drift in and out of the room, picking up knives and plates and feelings.
Desire is a tricky thing in these times, and October scares. Thank you for your words Ella!