You know it's the end of summer already when the sky is leaden gray and you wish you could just burrow in your blankets instead of facing the watery sunlight filtering between the gaps of your curtain. You walk through the city with your jeans cuffs damp and water sluicing between your fingers as you struggle between closing your wayward umbrella and paying the jeepney fare. There is the squishy stench of old garbage, now graying, at the corner of the overpass. Everything is cold, distant, beyond the next sheet of rain. You count time by the passage of a raindrop from one end of the windshield to the other.
This is the best time to write, to remember things, to plan ahead. I'm glad summer is finally over.