We spent the last weekend of summer the way that we've spent most of the rest of these summer weekends--eating and drinking and laughing. (Although yesterday I met a walrus, which was novel. And gross. Walrus, as it turns out, are unsavory creatures.) I get the feeling that in the future this summer is the kind that will always be sort of soft and sepia whenever we think about it, all full of inside jokes and ice cream and dance parties and little adventures and long, lazy afternoons. And a walrus, chewing on his fingernails. Flippernails? Whichever.
My intention is for all of this to lead smoothly into a fall full of soft sweaters and hugs and steamy bars. It's neither interesting nor exciting, which is certainly an idea that I am having difficulty grasping, but it's working out pretty well so far. I'm sure that life will get harrowing again eventually whether I want it to or not.
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