Clock hands fly around its face as I prepare to leave my place. As soon as I'm at work they crawl, yet summer races into fall.
My house is full of scraps of paper with scribbled notes and drawings, accumulated while I have been too busy to expand on them. Timely observations grow stale or moldy before they can be served.
Based on the conventional model of a five-day week devoted to an employer and two days off, you are entitled to 28 percent of your adult life. For those who have to work more jobs or longer hours to make ends meet, their share is much smaller. I've been there.
Business has tapered off sharply. The shop prepares to shorten hours for the fall hiatus. But the sun races southward and the cellist has had to return to where she is able to ply her trade. Another summer has been devoured.
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