Eventually the city almost ceases to speak. Sound of church bells echoing across streets and river and concrete and empty crossroads. A few people out there hurrying through early dark. More windows brightly lit today. Rereading ones own inner stories of this time of year. And be it just to feel calm for a few days.
Close to 11am. Still inside, breakfast as an ongoing ritual, coffee, conversations. A lot of rabbit holes, many questions, shrugging, few real answers. Concerned not to see solutions for anything. Hope as a coping mechanism again, not even a strategy. Sun moving forth. Welcoming autumn.
7pm, above the city. The scent of fires in the backyards, the sound of small feet carrying small ghosts through the streets and the stairway. Giggling voices, more excited than scary. (Maybe feeling content with others being happy and enjoying themselves isn't all too bad.)
9pm and a little more. The sound and scent and images of rain. Headlights of a late bus reflecting on the wet street. Most of the day has vanished, the borough ist veiled in darkness and utterly quiet again tonight. Pondering the last three decades, the years that passed, accomplishments made, things left missing. More than just once feeling a tad helpless with all that remained unaddressed. We could be elsewhere, for better or for worse. Maybe remaining humble and greateful still is a good start, despite all odds.