And what of it now? No big deal that my sweater doesn't hang by the door as I head out for another fun-filled day... But the thought remains, unestablished, I'm a permanent drifter here with no coatrack to call my own. Boxes still sitting, no real urge to unpack. It's just stuff, stuff I probably don't need, if still in boxen it lurks.

But nonetheless, a part of me is not here, not hearing the shell chimes on the porch, not paying attention to the seasons, the leaves, the wind, the browning grass. I'm pleasantly surprised by moderate weather; I shed my sweater. It lingers on my chair. I sit too long, too late, unmoving. I long for things distant, love those far away, love myself like my neighbor (who?), shiver, put on the sweater.

Seasons follow and I'll be glad tomorrow. For a while anyway.

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