In September it gets better. Things fall in place, and no promises are made. Last season, around the same time, I was on a boat but it kept moving in circles because it was rowed by only one oar. When you're in the middle of an ocean, lonely and not alone, time passes like soft sighs with the waves. In your head, time is moving like a motorboat and you're falling behind in a life raft. Life is in a constant state of emergency. The next thing you know, you're wrapped in a blanket, your eyes rouged, as your house burns down in front of you. August arrived dressed in topaz, a life guard, and left with little hope. In real life, there are no drills; you'll simply find yourself shuddering and knackered, looking for an escape. Something about September screams you won't always be rescued. There's either no hope or little hope. In September things were supposed to be better. Seven days in, I'm already hoping for October to take me in.
