photograph in a history book

When the seasons start to change is when I feel the most nostalgic. The first day the air is crisp and cold and I notice the changing leaves beckoning on autumn, the call of summer-green leaves filtering the cloudy sky and the sound of cicadas. Those days where the the slow turning of seasons becomes as apparent as the passing of a minute are the ones that dig up thoughts and feelings that slept far under the surface of consciousness.

I play old songs through my headphones and drift out the window of the 13th story. The louder the music, the more real it is. The horns soar in my ears, a chorus of voices and times long past, a familiar and comfortable feeling tinged with longing rings through me. I'm never more aware of time nor more unphased by its passing. The lyrics are a eulogy, I'm dreaming wide awake in color of late night joy rides and hours passed sitting outside a coffee shop talking and whiling away the time, counting in the minutes in cigarettes and waiting for something to happen.

The day is nearly over, the sun sinking away. When I drive home I'll sing in the car.