It's October 8th today, in the Southern Hemisphere. 22°C.
I sit at my desk, overlooking Rua da Consolação
My coffee, half diluted with milk is just how I most like it - "forte"
I'm well fed, well stretched, well read for class
What more do I need, I'm living a Bossa Nova dream
Yet, I wake every morning after a night of strange and dead nightmares
To find myself expecting to open the window and be greeted by a breeze that begs me to worm into a sweater
A breeze that brings with it the dying sound of leaves and mulchy sweetness that will soon be replaced by a dry cold
And if I am to feel this breeze, it will mean that I am in fact back in New York State, and I have the option to descend two flights of stairs and find two sleepy arms waiting to pull me into a delicious spoonful
It sometimes bothers me that I don't know which I'd rather wake up to