Something in the wind has changed. As if I could smell it.

The high water marks from this year are higher than the last's. I used to build sand castles to watch them collapse. Now I build thoughts dripping from the thighs of ancient goddesses rapt in ritualistic fervor. These sorts of thoughts collapse too, but with a honey-coated glow that absorbs the sunlight and makes each moment that fades toward winter reminiscent of long summer evenings.

I can reap sighs with scythes and drink embers floating in viscous ponds absconded into darkened concave dips in the land. The countryside and a time-honored tradition of wandering with a farmer's tan, an amiable attitude, and the wherewithal to occasionally say that which wishes to linger on the margins of consciousness. I can navigate worlds that aren't mine and feel as if I were born there, nationalized the moment I lay eyes on them.

So, too, I may be found strangely comfortable in you. Foraging in the depths of closets filled with shoes, and clothes that don't match your style anymore. Nourished not at all by any mention of myself in clamouring scrapes against the dresser drawers.

Comfort, my dear, is not a luxury nor an undertaking. Comfort is what is left after the challenge fades to familiarity, and looking in the mirror at my own face becomes a burden best avoided.