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  • I figured it would cease during the night. After all, it was only a few days ago that Summer was all over me, like a teasing lover, kissing my face and my bare arms. But then, abruptly, Summer’s stern guardian shut him up and closed the curtains. While I was sleeping, the clocks were set forward to wintertime, and it’s too soon; I’m not ready for winter. Who’s ever ready for winter?

    Outside in the street people are running. It’s the Lucerne Marathon, and the marching band is playing like they’re trying to conjure up Summer, liberate him from his involuntary exile.

    The music makes me want to play along, even though I know it's just make believe, I close my eyes and try to imagine that the sun is shining, it’s July, and there’s cheering and fireworks, and later there will be a grand barbeque, and the dripping sound I hear is only a light drizzle, passing by, gracing the wildflowers and the lush trees, and there's colour everywhere, I can sense it, a deep blue sky and bright green treetops, oh, and flowers; red, fuchsia, violet, yellow, all sun-kissed and fragrant. But when they stop playing and I open my eyes it’s foggy and snowing heavily, and my feet are cold, and all these people are running like they’re headed somewhere, headed back to summer, desperately headed for the past, and I can’t see the point, I don’t understand this insistence.
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