There is a particular quality to the light in the last week of August — thinner than July, not yet the low gold of October. I keep meaning to write it down properly and keep not doing it, which is how most of this year has gone.
What the week actually held
Three walks, one of them in rain. A long phone call with someone I had been avoiding for no reason I could name. Two books started, neither finished. A song I played so many times it stopped meaning anything and then, on about the fortieth listen, started meaning something else entirely.
It is a new dawn, it is a new day — and the trouble with a new day is that you have to be there for it.
Next week
Fewer plans. I have been treating rest as something to be earned and I would like to stop. See also this piece, which said it better and shorter.