It's getting quieter, slowly. A reverse boil, when everything's settling near the bottom. Clear. I can look into it.
In college, I once wrote about a Lemonhead. Its tart pucker in my mouth, the way it turned to sweet and how the sunlight warmed a patch on the floorboards. I don't know why I remember that moment, but I remember it exactly. The Oxford breeze through the window and the way the curtain flirted open on itself.
Tonight it's a fire. And I'm drinking limoncello.