The windows are open and the curtains have been blowing softly all day toward me as if they are reaching out for a hug.
The windows are open and the fan has been slowly cooling the warm autumn air as it drifts lazily in toward me almost as if it is looking for a last embrace.
The windows are open and the cicadas are crying or laughing or playing or whatever it is that a cicada does when it sees that the windows to a very strange place are open.
The windows are open and the goldness of the sun makes me sad in a way that squeezes my heart and puts a sort of lump in my throat and the coffee I brew doesn't help and the goldness just saturates more and more and even more until I can't hear the cicadas or hear the whisper of the silky curtain caressing itself or the blades of the fan trying to slice the sadness in the air before it gets to me.