It’s easier to leave when there’s nothing to leave behind, which is why I’d planned a monastic, productive break. So what of the accidental infrastructure that’s developed, flowered like funghi this humid summer? But that doesn’t do these last months justice, so here’s a toast:

To the summer that unlocked my sternum and let the doors of my ribcage swing wide open. To the summer that filled me like a key in a lock. To the summer of bounty that only just beat out the summer of famine. To the summer that excavated my yellowing pathologies like fossils. To the summer that nearly shattered that deadened history. To the summer that exposed vast constellations of embarrassing appetites. To the summer that sent me on an uneven spin, a centrifugal failure. To the summer that warmed me like a pint. To the summer that held my hand through the slow burn of several cumbersome epiphanies. To the summer that proved how little I know of you–how what I thought was you just turned out to be the way you make me feel. To the summer that showed me the way you make me feel.

To the summer of deep and genuine fucking esteem!

To the summer that reminded me that I am nothing if not a writhing bundle of nerves and synapses, each and every one of which I offer up to each and every one of you.

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