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September 18, 2012
It's turning cold.

The sun is still languishing in the air. The sky is still as blue as a think sheet of pale ice.

But instead of this being warming, comforting, all enveloping, it's cold. The wind prickles and stabs and laughs. It turns your face drunken red and dabs your eyes with dew.

Now is the time to detest the morning. To cocoon yourself in wool and knitted-wear.

It means I'm going to become a worse pianist. The cold will stiffen my fingers, make them unable to flow and flitter like butterflies or drunken snakes.

The cold comes.